In An Age Full Of Heroes
by fjun
Summary: Araris Cousland returns from his self-imposed exile to pick up the banner of his family and wage war against the usurper sitting on the throne and the murderous traitor at his side. Veering into AU territory. Focus on civil war.
1. The Past Devours

_Author's notes:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes._

_Welcome to my fanfic: _In An Age Full Of Heroes_, a non-canonical Dragon Age: Origins story not focusing on the game but rather the civil war running amok in Ferelden during the time of the Fifth Blight._

_There will be some fundamental changes and reinterpretations of mine. Especially regarding mages, their abilities, how they derive and tap into the powers of the Fade as well as the templars' means to keep them and demonic influence under control._

_Should you have questions or concerns, feel free to write a review or PM me. It might take me some time, but I'll always answer. Constructive criticism is always welcome, naturally._

Edit:_ Chapter has been edited as per 29.03.2016. No changes to the plot have been made, only to the structure and flow of my writing, to adapt them to my current grasp of prose. Furthermure, single quotes have been substituted with double quotes._

_Without further ado, enjoy the first chapter of a book written in an age full of heroes!_

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter I **

**The Past Devours**

**.**

**.**

Draped and hidden deep inside a dark woollen cloak, the tall man entered the capital of Antiva beneath the raised portcullis of the south-western Saltway Gate.

Immediately the city's smell assaulted the man's aquiline nose. His nostrils wrinkled in welcome at the delicate scent of seawater mixed with sour wine and Antivan spices as well as the sweet breeze of whore and debauchery. Thankfully, the guards, Obmaeri and Ilsama, always stationed at the minor Saltway Gate, shortly after dusk each third day, knew him already from his past few trips into the bustling port city. Waved him through with a bored gesture. Thus the man's passage went uninterrupted and unnoticed, save by a few who paid him no heed.

Navigating the city's contorted streets and alleyways with indigenous familiarity, the foreigner soon found his destination, the tavern of the One-Winged Jackdaw, always rife with rumour.

And drink to loosen already eager tongues.

**.**

**.**

The foreigner proved utterly oblivious to the quartet of hawkish eyes tracking his every movement from atop the city's slanted rooftops, since he'd entered it through the arched Saltway Gate.

_Beware this mark, Abscamandri. Strike quick and true,_ Maestro Komumkuttra had warned him personally as he delivered the contract.

Their employer had informed them that their current target would be of the more dangerous ilk. Doubly so if they'd be foolish enough to allow him to unsheathe his blade. Ostensibly, the man possessed renowned skill as a swordsman in his homeland of Ferelden.

Taking no chances, as is the wont of the House of Crows, Maestro Komumkuttra had summarily decided that this particular contract permitted no room for mistakes or the participation of novice members of their devious art. Only the best of Maestro Komumkuttra's claw were assigned the task of murdering the dog-loving Fereldan.

As such, Abscamandri found himself hunched on the terracotta-tiled edges of Antiva City's canopy. Ready to hunt, he and his three deadly companions eagerly awaited the tall male to exit the tavern's comfort again.

All things aside, you didn't simply face off against four seasoned sorcerers who'd furthermore been trained and now served the Antivan House of Crows' will. Even other Crows tried to avoid such suicidal odds under any given circumstance.

Whoever had purchased the services of their claw had paid a hefty sum to have the four of them assigned to the task.

The rumours surrounding their cadre always brought a wicked smile to Abscamandri's lips. Many true, some outright blatant lies, but all served their purpose of pre-emptive intimidation. If there was one thing commoner and noble alike feared and admired throughout the country even more than a common Crow assassin, then that were members of the _Corvi Magi_.

So, who warranted such an overwhelming call of sorcerous force? Even the most apt swordsman could do nothing against the primal onslaught and the subtle weavings of the schools of magic. The question itched Abscamandri. The answer remained an unsolvable riddle to him.

_Unless . . ._

Abscamandri viewed the world with sorcerous eyes, narrowed in concentration. Couldn't find the tell-tale absence of lyrium in the tavern. Anathema to everything he represented. Besides, Maestro Komumkuttra wouldn't have sent mage-assassins against a lyrium-bearing target. Abscamandri blinked and the world returned to normal.

Night had already settled by now, the arriving sea breeze filling his bones with a welcome chill, while his heart accelerated in lustful anticipation. Blood would soon be spilled, splattering hot on his cool skin. The climbing crescent moon illuminated the cobbled streets below, piercing the dreary, overcast sky with its silvery lances of light. Rewriting shadow with every passing cloud.

The door opened with a protesting creak, painfully loud in the silence of the night, and their target reappeared, stumbling slightly. Probably drunk.

Sounds of merriment and laughter drifted out from within the tavern till the door was thrown shut again.

Their target's inebriation made their work considerably easier. If your target staggered around piss drunk, barely on his feet and couldn't walk in a straight line, then factors such as speed and viciousness and accuracy lost a bit of their importance. As a woeful side effect it also minimised the thrill of the hunt by a rather pesky amount.

But one didn't become a member of the Antivan Crows, much less their cadre of mage-assassins through inflated pomposity and prideful arrogance.

Without a sign or spoken command, the four Corvi Magi simultaneously plummeted off their respective roof's edge like a nosediving eagle, closing in on its prey, down into the street twenty armspans below. Abscamandri opened himself to the Fade and felt its chaotic power as it surged through his limbs. The blossoming of power around him alerted him to the fact that his fellow peers had done the same. They uttered a few syllables under their breath. The sorcerous words rolled like distant thunder through the streets.

The sloping fronts of clay buildings rushed by, then their free-fall descent decelerated to a glide. As the simple gravitational spell manifested its effects, it pealed back the glamour cast around them.

Perfectly synchronised, the four Crows emerged from sorcerous gloom and landed with near inaudible thuds of their moccasin-soled feet, surrounding the tall man in a half-circle.

Things went fast, then. As they're wont to.

The slender foreigner didn't back away in surprise nor froze he in shock at the sudden arrival of four assassins appearing all around him out of thin air, daggers drawn and poised to strike like vicious vipers. Only a few paces away now, Abscamandri realised that their target seemed even taller up close. Probably because he actually was. He towered over the tallest of the assassins surrounding him by more than a hand. Yet, only deluded fools judged martial prowess by either height or the sheer bulge of muscle tissue, deserving anything but a swift end.

Abscamandri darted in for the kill with quick and confident steps, daggers in a reverse grip and upraised, aiming at the target's heart and throat like a serpent's fangs. Abscamandri prepared a slight nudge of sorcery, just in case.

Yet his daggers never found their intended mark.

In quite an unexpected and unbelievably quick motion the stranger flicked off his woollen cloak with one hand and threw it at his face, robbing Abscamandri shortly of vision.

_Not drunk, then._ A devilish smile split his features.

He felt another tug at the back of his skull. Someone else reached into the Fade, though the well of power tasted utterly different than all sorceries that ever fondled and flowed cool down Abscamandri's palate before. Whoever reached, he reached deeply, albeit with a frighteningly perfect control.

Out of nowhere a heavy weight pressed its knee against Abscamandri's chest, squeezing with gnawing cold, biting far deeper than the ocean breeze.

An eerie wail pierce the silence of the midsummer night, just on the edge of his hearing.

The woollen garment flattered out of the way, deftly batted aside by his left hand.

And before Abscamandri stood a man no more.

Fear now cursed along his spine. An unfamiliar tingle, if ever he felt one.

It was a haunting image, that non-human creature hovering before him, as if underwater. It had no body which deserved the description. Ethereal tendrils and wasps of pale grey and ghostly white shimmered, flowed, and shifted with self-imposed intent. He was barely able to make out shapes of a face and a body with legs and arms here and there. Torn and lacerated pieces of clothing shifted as if tugged by some unseen wind or underwater current. The creature's face was human in appearance, though severely wounded on the left side. Cheek sheared away, showing strands of muscle and shimmering bone underneath, the wound raked itself upwards to the left eyeball. The creature's eyes held no semblance to what a human's would look like. Both swirled inky, pools of infinite blackness, sucking in every attempt at conscious thought.

Surprising himself, Abscamandri, still mid-stride, acted on reflex, striking with his two curved daggers. Again, aiming for his initial targets. Afraid, his mind didn't take the time to reach into the Fade and draw forth enough power to conjure a quick spell, but chose to respond with inbred martial force. Two poisoned daggers entered the ghoulish apparition's neck and chest right between two ribs, cleaving to the heart.

_Maker's bride have mercy on my soul!_

"She won't." A voice hissed snake-like in his ear.

Abscamandri's peers sung their unearthly song in waves of glittering sorceries. They trickled off like pearls of silver from spherical wards.

Fear now cursed in palpable shivers through Abscamandri, right before the wraith's blade flashed.

Took his head off.

**.**

**.**

A cold smile marred his blue-blooded features.

He sat perched on his haunches. Studied the four crumpled forms surrounding him. With a tattered piece of cloth, nonchalantly ripped off from one of the assassins' garments, the foreigner wiped the blood befouling his blade off with gentle and caressing strokes. Finished with the task, he rose from his crouched position, sheathing the sword in a smooth and practised motion.

He gazed around, looking for any sign of further presence in the gloom.

Sensing none, he searched the assassins' pouches and pockets, many of them hidden and filled to brim with exotic poisons and throwing knives as well as elfroot remedy.

The meagre results availed him nothing of further use. Only an inconspicuous brass sign. A sign which he could place a local name to. A name he did not want to cross unless he absolutely had to. Which he did, quite obviously.

_Komumkuttra._

He'd have to lengthen his visit to Antiva City.

It filled him with no slight amount of dread. Not the killing of these four mage-assassins, lying in their own pools of freshly spilled blood, shining black in the moonlight. Nor did he particularly mind the violence that would have to be done in order to gain even the slightest whiff of information. Information which would only confirm his worst fears one way or another.

No, the implications riding this failed assassination attempt's back filled him with cold dread. A curious notion, he'd outlived them, after all. The smile vanished off his lips, turned into a sneer. Anger cursed in frothing waves through the man. An anger he could do nothing with but contain, clamp down on, and shut away into the far reaches of his being.

One who tries to hide from social interaction and company as much as he did, does no simply attract the attention of the Antivan Crows' deadliest, their magi cadre. It defied every notion of logic. Or, mayhap, this had been the jovial consequence of a whimsical gathering of four apostates who had been expertly trained in the art of professional murder by the Antivan Crows. If so, he had the last laugh.

Very implausible, though. No, to attract their unfettered attention like this, meant that someone had not only found him and knew who he was, it additionally meant that this unknown someone also wanted his rotting corpse never to be found in some forgotten ditch. In a way he felt flattered that he merited such a violent and, no doubt, outrageously expensive course of action.

Yet it wouldn't end with him. He'd only be the first. Others would follow. His family would. Why else would someone go so far out of the way to have him removed if this wasn't a direct attack on his bloodline? It simply made no sense.

Now, there was no time to dally. He gathered his cloak which had, unexpectedly, survived the harsh abuse of its owner in one piece.

_Alas, it'll be kind of a saddening goodbye. If such a thing even exists between witches and sorcerers._

**.**

**.**

The sky bruised in bands of sunlight and shadow on the following morning, the Antivan House of Crows lamented the massacre of Maestro Komumkuttra's entire claw as much as the death of Komumkuttra himself. Rumours of brutal torture roamed the streets.

None of the other maestros knew who'd committed this travesty.

Yet, retribution followed swiftly. Lords and ladies, who'd on occasion vied against the Crows, though innocent in this matter, were found in the streets for days to come, their throats opened in a smile.

**.**

**.**

Long after the Grand Cathedral's twelfth bell rang, loud and clear throughout the city, for the last time that day, Isabela—pirate, raider, and captain of the infamous ship Siren's Call—loitered around. She occupied the usual table inside the usual brothel she frequented. It was one of the fancier whorehouses, at least in the dockside districts of Val Royeaux. Which didn't mean all that much.

Isabela, always a good judge of character, assessed her newest crew member and, undoubtedly, the crew's handsomest male addition. His current resting place, a puddle of cheap ale, already drying up, informed her of the saddening fact that he was unfit for the any kind of sexual activity Isabela had had in mind when she proposed to her crew a visit to the Peg-Legged Peach.

"Egad," she moaned. "What sad times we women face. Men, once predictable, now not even the prospect of the Queen of the Eastern Seas nude, moaning on top, arouses them."

Isabela sighed at her predicament. "Stupid Blight."

Laughing at his captain's peril, her first mate, Casavir, joined her at the table. A mug, half filled with murky ale in one hand. Slouching down, his other hand roughly clapped onto the handsome sailor's slumped back, stirred his sleeping place in the pool of cheap beverage. The sailor yelped and toppled sideways, off the bench. Arrived, face down on the stone tiles, he began to snore anew in bliss.

Casavir looked at her, one bushy brow arched, a slight smirk covering his pock-marred features. Of course he had advice to offer, every first mate worth his salt did, even in a situation when Isabella wanted to hear anything but.

"Oi, capt'n," he began and gulped down half of his residual ale. The other half trailed down his face and the hairs on his chest, exposed by the unbuttoned quilted gilet he wore.

"You know 'em young lads now'days, them prefer sweet ale over sweet women. Takes 'em less guts to order a drink. An o'course them fo'get thei' 'roubls."

"Sad times, indeed," Isabela muttered under her breath as her first mate belched loudly, before he fell backwards, off the wooden bench he sat upon, heels still lingering atop. Seemingly uninterested in continuing their stimulating conversation, he joined in the general snoring now surrounding her.

Alone again and left to her peaceful sulking, Isabela raised her own earthenware jug filled with rum to her lips. The self-pronounce pirate queen took a reinvigorating sip. The taste of smoked wood burned down her throat. One of the many things she loved.

_Down my throat, that is._ Isabela chuckled, quite mad, in the eyes of other patrons she was sure.

About to call out to the proprietor of the brothel, a petite, elderly woman by the name of Melanie, Isabela heard the brothel's heavy wooden door creak open.

A stranger of towering height entered, shrouded in a dark woollen cloak brushing over the dusty floor, his features hidden in shadows by a wide hood. At the neck, the cloak was held together by an elegant silver brooch.

A thin sword, its guard a winged laurel wreath.

With interest piqued, Isabela watched Melanie manoeuvre her way through the drunken and less-lusty-than-usual lot of men, to greet the stranger in her establishment.

The ship captain couldn't discern what the proprietor then asked of the dreary stranger, yet the man spoke naught, only answering with a shake of his hooded head. In retort to the frowned eyebrows slowly drawing together on Melanie's round and reddening face, the stranger threw back his hood, albeit only after a few heartbeats of reluctance.

At first, Isabela mistook him for one of the elvish woodland folk, the Dalish. Fair and pale, with a certain ageless sheen to his skin. At her own assumption she had to shake her head and the fairy-tale glimmer wore off. Elves didn't grow this tall.

Taking a closer look through narrowed eyes, she spotted the man's sharp and narrow bone structure and a slight gauntness to his features, faint wrinkles on brow, none around eyes and mouth. It told her a tale of blue-blooded heritage and . . . an unhealthy absence of laughter.

Plain as day.

Loose strands of bright hair, scintillating in the random flicker of candlelight, fell down long on both sides of his head, while some strands were tucked behind his, quite obviously, human-shaped ears.

Isabela felt her mouth dry a bit when she realised that the stranger had seized her inquisitive stare, and currently made his way towards her, the brothel's proprietor completely forgotten at the entrance, left gaping at the insolence.

The man moved with an uncanny elegance and grace in his step. Somewhere below her stomach Isabela felt a pulse of heat at the thoughts running through her depraved mind.

Dismissively, the stranger toppled her snoring first mate over the edge of the bench with a nudge of his foot. The man perched down opposite her with a confidence like he owned the entire brothel. A few strokes of his fine-boned hand's bottom, as if to brush away non-existing crumbles of food.

"I find myself,' he spoke low, 'sorely in need of what you offer, captain."

A predatory smile overtook Isabela. "It seems my first mate was wrong in his assumption that, nowadays, every man has lost his courage and interest in sleeping with women."

She took his hand, roughened by callouses. In her mind they already scratched her back and grasped her throat. "Follow me then, handsome, I shall procure us a room for the night. Maybe some company."

Isabela batted her lashes.

Her attempt at getting off the table, he intercepted. "As lovely as that sounds, I am afraid I shall have to decline your offer."

As an afterthought, he added, "For now."

"Alas." Pouting, Isabela let her shoulders slump deliberately, whilst sitting down again. "What else would you have of me, then?"

"Many a sailor around here speaks highly of you." He shrugged. "Other captains, not so much. Neither do they mince their words."

"Don't believe those grumpy fools, then. It's as simple as that. They're just jealous."

"Jealous of what?"

"My steering skills, of course. And, on top of that, they're jealous that I don't steer their wheels. Lusty old pricks, all of them."

Her mischievous wink was answered with brooding silence.

"How soon could you cast off?"

"Tomorrow, after sunrise." Talking pure business now, Isabela leaned back, arms crossed under her chest, in a way she knew drew the eyes of men and some women alike. "Listen, I don't know if you're aware, but I don't take stray puppies, however sweet, on a free voyage just on their word."

"I understand." He nodded. "Coin will not be a problem."

"Is that so?" said Isabela, a delicate eyebrow arched. She scrutinised him for a few heartbeats. He stared right back without blinking. "Very well, two items remain that I'll insist on, _stranger_."

"What would they be?"

"Your name and destination."

He slowly rose out of his seated position, tucking at his cloak, scrupulously smoothing out wrinkles that weren't there. Then he gallantly bowed at the hip.

"I am named Araris Cousland, and my destination is not far. I must journey with haste to Highever."

**.**

**.**

There loomed a serene calm and peace over the dawning day. Everything began to stumble bleary-eyed into wakefulness.

The sun, yet still pale, slowly ascended in the east. Feathers of dim orange and smears of golden bled into the greyish sky. Val Royeaux's dock workers slowly crawled back to life, this day anew, hungover as ever. Heaving heavy crates and barrels in the rising sun, filled with spices and fabrics, jewellery and spirits as well as ale, they loaded them onto the many ships occupying the stirring harbour.

Currently perched atop the sterncastle's hind reeling, her long legs crossed, Isabela surveyed her sailors below, scurrying around, readying everything aboard Siren's Call for departure.

Casavir walked up to her, concern tinged with a measure of unease all over his wrinkled features. Or maybe it was the hangover, palpable by the smell, which proved the source of his obvious unease.

"Captain," he slurred, though better than a few bells earlier. "That man, Cousland, I 'eard of him."

Whispering conspiratorially, he added, "Rumour says he's been exiled for treason. On pain of death."

Isabela wryly smiled at him. "Traitor's to the crown are usually executed, dear. He still has his head."

Isabela closed her eyes and turned, facing a gentle breeze from the calm ocean.

"Execution's only for common folk, not nobility, ain't it?"

Reckoning her morning peace broken, Isabela deftly hopped down from her seat. "What're you getting at, Cas? Just spit it out."

"Me doesn't think it wise to have him 'round, captain. Me believes he'll be trouble." Her first mate ducked his head slightly. "The boys feel it too, there's something off about him."

"Oh, darn. Sailors and their superstition." Isabela snorted wistfully. "That something-is-off-about-him man is going to pay us royally. If the lads are superstitious still, their share of the wage will be cut in half. More for me, tell the boys that. And tell them not to pout like little girls, only because there's a man graced with more beauty than they are. Shouldn't be new for most of them, really." She gestured. "Now scoot!"

Casavir barked a laugh and "Aye, capt'n," he said, before clutching his brow, ostensively to massage away the pain residing there.

The clatter of horse hooves on wooden planks neared soon after that. Astride a gallant midnight mare Araris Cousland arrived, reining in his animal right below where Isabela now leaned against the rail. Admittedly, Isabela didn't know much about horses in general, but a well-travelled pirate queen recognized a beast of fine breed, obvious with Araris Cousland's horse.

Standing on her toes, on leg arched back at the knee, Isabela peaked over the ship's rail and called down.

"Where were you? We've been waiting all night and day!"

Something that could've been as much a grunt as a brief, misshapen laugh drifted up to her ears.

**.**

**.**


	2. The Rise of Dark

_Notes:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware.__Rated M for language, violence and suggestive (maybe even explicit) themes_.

_If you have any question, write a review or PM. _

_Enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter II **

**The Rise of Dark**

**.**

**.**

Tent flaps were pushed aside, the canvas rustling. A stream of bleak light washed his vision white. Unwelcome sounds and smells eagerly rushed inside as the opportunity presented itself.

The clamour of an encamped army. Of men and women readying for warfare.

Nearly overwhelming in its cool intensity, a fresh breeze of autumn air filled his tent, alongside the scent of muddy and freshly dug earth. Carried only faintly by the arriving winds was the smell of sweaty and wet cattle mabari, accompanied by their barking.

The lulling cackle of hearth wood told him about the brazen pots heating above flickering fires, filled with stew full of bits of mashed potatoes and slices of hare or chicken supplemented with rosemary.

Rows of soldiery huddled around the beacon of warmth and prospect of hot and decent food. The clink of shifting armour plates and rustling of chainmail accompanied the buzzing chatter of anxious men and women trying to cover their dread with irony and black humour.

A voice breached the barriers of his slumber, 'Your lordship?'

Fergus mumbled something unintelligible in response, signalling his rousing wakefulness.

'My lord, the king wishes your presence.'

Fergus blinked and vainly rubbed rheum from his eyes, lids heavy with sleep and the recent depravation of it. The road and wilderness were no place for him. It made him feel old. His back sore and muscles aching everywhere.

Sleepily, he croaked, 'On my way.' And pushed back the fur covers, bare feet touching the cold ground.

The flaps rustled once more, close. Reducing the bustling noise to a far-away background static, just barely.

Fergus' stomach growled in contempt at being forgotten.

**.**

**.**

After splashing icy water into his face and quickly checking his overall appearance, Fergus left his tent, nibbling at a piece of freshly baked bread. The walk proved short and the royal guardsmen waved him through without a pause.

Inside his friend and sharer of dear childhood memories already waited, regally attired as ever.

The ruling monarch of Ferelden acknowledged his presence. 'It is truly good to see you, my friend. A sight for sore eyes, you are.'

Still too sleepy for most cognitive process to be at their intellectual height, Fergus could only respond with inbred courtesy.

'Thank you, your majesty. I, too, have missed your company.'

Cailan laughed heartily. 'Oh no! None of that. Do not dare to majesty me,' the laugh in his voice subsided. 'I hear enough of that every day. Even from Loghain, the stubborn mule.'

This time they shared their humour.

'Very well, Cailan.' The two child and adulthood friends shared a crushing hug of welcome. 'It feels good to stand at your side again.'

'Quite good indeed, Fergus. Too long it has been. You were missed in Denerim. All seemed so bleak and dull. As more than dreary I perceived your absence.'

'You know why.'

'Yes, I do.'

'Duty to my family and my people. Not common occurrence, after all, for someone so young to be _asked_ to study in the University of Orlais.'

'Duty,' Cailan nodded sagely. 'A burden all noble sons and daughters share.'

He didn't know why this surfaced after such a long time, but Fergus sourly blurted out, 'Yet, some choose not to.'

Cailan looked at him. 'Your brother.'

He sighed. 'Yes, my brother.' _As always at the core of something, the little runt. Even after nearly a decade of absence he still haunts my thoughts._

'I never really understood.'

Fergus blinked, walking deeper into the tent. 'Understood what?' Locating a carafe of red wine, he poured himself some.

'Why he left.'

He sipped, then said, 'Neither did I.'

'Hm. All anyone could wish for, and he simply . . . gave it up. A loving and caring family. Status und wealth. And skill, by the Maker's grace. Skill that only one in hundreds of thousands possess. I've never seen anything like it ever since then.'

_Yes, skill._ Fergus had to admit his little brother that much, albeit only begrudgingly. The runt had possessed skill. And if he didn't, he learned quickly. Very quickly. Yet he had always lacked a certain sense of duty. Araris was only ever interested in Araris.

Cailan didn't seem to have noticed his lapse into remembrance. Fergus scrambled to put his thoughts into words. 'It's not for everyone . . . this burden that comes with it. The duties and tasks. Court politics, arranged marriages. Actually being responsible for something valuable, for the lives of thousands of people, looking up to you for guidance.' He grunted, vaguely amused. 'But look who I'm telling that.'

Smirking, Cailan filled a glass of his own with red wine. 'A reasonable argument, my friend. But nonetheless, without as much as an explanation. It rather seems like a coward's way.' And sipped thoughtfully.

To this, Fergus shook his head. 'Araris was many things. A coward he was not.'

'My point exactly, Fergus. Why, then, leave without as much as a whisper, vanishing without a single trace. Now, admittedly, I don't know your brother as well as you do – I've never even exchanged words with him – but from what I've heard it seemed unlike him.'

'True.'

Silence loomed heavy above. Like a towering usurper of activity glaring down at them with the burning fever of madness in his blackish eyes. His gaze a thick curtain of muteness draped over both of them.

Heat uncomfortably tickled Fergus' chest.

'A mystery, I guess. Let us speak of it no more. How fares your son?' Cailan said, changing the topic.

Fergus cracked a smile, one of fatherly proudness at that. 'He's a delight, Cailan. Oh, all the mischief he looks for. And my sweet Orianna, ah, her despair.' The Cousland family firstborn chuckled silently. 'Soon, you'll know, too. Being a parent, bringing new life into this world, it fills you with life and joy, truly. It does.'

'My heart is delighted at your fortune, Fergus. I can only hope.' The king smiled in an ominous way, Fergus had never seen a comparable expression on his friend. A sharp glint filled his eyes as they gazed into the back of the tent, where a small, locked chest sat perched atop a wooden table filled with ink-splattered missives and maps.

'Yet, it seems to me that even more congratulations are in order for your family, as you already mentioned.'

'Yes, indeed, we're all quite proud of-'

Unannounced, Teyrn Loghain barged into the tent. His eyes flat, filled with ice, regarding both of them. He looked like a man on a mission of utmost importance, ready to bark orders.

And bark orders he did, well barking might be a tad bit exaggerated.

Fergus was to lead a scouting party out into the Wilds and assess the approaching Darkspawn horde's strength.

**.**

**.**

_Dumat's breath!_

Never had she seen a legion, an army or a single invasion force as large as the gathering horde of Darkspawn in the valley below. Not even the natural and artificial defences of an ancient fortress like Ostagar would do much good. There were torches beyond counting, and Ser Cauthrien knew for sure that not every of these vile creatures would be carrying one.

All the precious time Teryn Loghain and King Calian had spent persuading Grand Cleric Elemena to allow the mages to fight with them in the upcoming engagement had been for naught. Not even the most powerful sorcerer of Thedas could hope to stand against such evil might.

Every life of every courageous soldier they'd send out into the wilderness to assess the enemy's strength, full and utterly redundant. A task so many of them had paid for dearly.

Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, Hero of River Dane stood still as if carved out of a single piece of stone. His piercing gaze watched vigilantly.

Thunder cracked open the nightly sky, illuminating, for a heartbeat, the shivering mass of humans behind her. Howling winds tugged at nearby trees, smaller trunks creaked and bended. Big droplets of rain poured down heavily, clashing against armour at a rapid pace. Loghain's raven-coloured, shoulder-length hair was already drenched through, strands clinging to his face, lightly obscuring his view. Just like Ser Cauthrien's.

Right now, she simply hoped that her liege lord wasn't as unsure and unconvinced as she was. Not to say that she was completely terrified. She could only pray one prayer after another in the Maker's name that Loghain knew how to turn the tables. Now, when it mattered most to Ferelden.

A deafening roar rose up from the valley below, usurping even the raging storm in its loudness.

The Darkspawn horde charged and the earth trembled in response. Crude axes and swords glinted in the staccato bursts of thunder bolts' bright lightening. Lumbering frames of massive ogres ran on their muscled legs, some as thick as an oak's trunk.

The sharp illumination of thunder filled the sky once again. Standing huddled together on both sides of the towering and ragged cliffs upon which the Tevinter fortress perched atop, were a few figures.

Ser Cauthrien squinted against the rain, but she thought she saw coats and robes and cloaks fluttering in the strong winds, tugging. After a moment she was proven right. Even Loghain looked up at the display. Maybe her frightened mind imaged things that weren't real, but she could've sworn that there were deep voices uttering an ancient language, just on the edge of hearing, in between the winds' gusts and the rolling thunder.

A huge wave of golden flame spanned between the two groups of magi, first climbing up then rolling forward before descending, growing in size as it raced towards the charging masses of Darkspawn below.

A ritual of enormous proportion. For days they'd sat there, the magi. Now, they were finally ready to unleash their terrible powers.

The enormous spell scythed into the horde, sending chunks hurtling in every direction, sweeping over the plains in erratic and barely controlled rage. When the magical wisps finally faded, endless amounts of bits of Darkspawn covered scorched earth. Ogres, their limbs shredded to mottled pieces, faces mangled, tumbled around a few heavy steps before finally collapsing. Sorcerous fire ravaged the entire span of ground covering the valley below, reaching even into the Korcari Wilds. The flaming quickly spread into the woods, trees aflame like huge torches.

It didn't stop or even slow down the horde's advance, merely reduced thousands upon thousands of them into bloody bits of charred meat.

In the distance above, a huge fire suddenly sparked to life atop the Tower of Ishal, seen clearly even from leagues away. Her narrowed eyes scrutinized the battle, raging below the hill she stood upon, then wandered on towards Loghain's passive frame.

The Teryn turned his head and bellowed. "Ser Cauthrien!" She stepped closer in a rustle of chainmail.

'Yes, your lordship?'

'Sound . . . the retreat.'

Her heartbeat stopped, blood flow freezing solid inside her body. Every fibre of her being screamed and raged and clawed against what he just pronounced.

'But, your Grace, what about the king? We cannot leave him!'

He spun around, and grabbed her wrist in a painful grip, felt even through her gauntlets.

'Our king is lost.' Repeating softer, he muttered, voice deflated, 'Lost.'

He let go of her, and turned his gaze back upon the battlefield. Then he said, in his usual commanding voice, leaving no room for disapproval or disobeying, 'Relay my order, Ser Cauthrien.'

The female knight watched him for a moment, then turned on her heel and approached the army lying in wait. Her emotions raging like the sky above at what was happening.

_This cannot be happening. The Fade must've trapped me within a nightmarish illusion. A fate that could be. Yet, still, unreal._

Just before she was out of earshot or the raging storm swallowed up Loghain's words, nothing more than a whisper was carried to her ears.

'Please forgive me, Maric, for I cannot.'

* * *

_Edit: changed some sentences and words. Added some, deleted a few. Found some typos and corrected them._


	3. Toll of Justice

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so._

_As promised, the next "full length" chapter. With some close-up action again. Enjoy!_

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter III **

**Toll of Justice**

**.**

**.**

Sails stretched and spars creaked in the wind. The _Siren's Call's _prow carved through the frothy waves of the _Waking Sea_ like a sharp axe-blade. The ship's gentle sway lulled his mind into welcomed numbness. Araris was grateful for every diversion that took his reeling mind off and away from his racing thoughts.

Ever since the failed assassination attempt in Antiva City he could do naught but think of eventualities. It was tiring.

Araris remained in his cabin, though it also was the captain's cabin, which she had, in a sudden fit of altruism, proposed to share with him. After a while it had proved to be anything but altruism. Selfish desire, more likely.

He had long since grown exhausted of scanning the horizon for the first sign of land. He could only pray that it'd appear soon. Alas, he participated in no such non-productive amusements, like prayer. Venerating and pleading to a dubious entity in hopeful prayer wasn't really his thing.

Perched atop Isabela's considerably large bed time passed for him, leaning against the sloping backside wall, long feet stretched out before him in idleness. Araris had sifted through the pirate queen's cabin for something to read, and, after some time, he made a find.

Though the tome proved to be touching on most naughty and depraved subjects, even with detailed illustrations, he read it. Wondrous, how much new one could learn, in such a short amount of time. He hadn't ever dreamed about of doing . . . well, half of the things described in that book. And the other half was so utterly ludicrous, to even entertain the notion of it would be madness.

The cabin's double door opened and was hastily thrown shut again. The angry whistle of harsh winds could be heard stronger for a short moment, though the vigour of the storm seemed to have subsided a bit. Hours ago, Araris had though he'd surely have to tie himself to Isabela's bed with her iron cuffs, which surely were there for that exact reason and nothing else, if only to avoid flying around the cabin in an uncontrolled and laughable fashion.

Without preamble, his gracious host shook off her drenched leathern cloak where she stood and hopped onto the bed beside him like a wet cat. Quickly, as if her life depended on it, Isabela gathered all silk sheets and wool blankets she could find, and wrapped herself tightly inside them.

Araris closed his current read and got off the bed.

'What're you doing?' The Queen of the Eastern Seas jittered.

'Getting off the bed.'

'Obviously. Why?'

'You're drenching.'

She huffed through the blankets, 'What noble sentiment.'

Araris padded over to a nearby table filled to brim with navigational maps, compasses, phallus-like figures and liquor bottles. As luck would have it, he found two goblets nearby, too. Araris could understand if someone didn't know how to deal with Isabela's depraved wit – charm, as she'd surely say - or her constant sexual innuendo or her straightforward attitude with, well, everything and everyone.

But it'd be beyond him to ever question the smuggler's lavish taste in food and drink as well as men and women.

He shared those.

Araris filled one goblet with a strong and smoky whisky from Antiva, and the other with spice red wine from . . . he didn't rightly know where. But it went down the palate very smoothly.

Seating himself on a low window frame besides the bed, legs crossed at the ankles, the young nobleman handed Isabela the goblet filled with whisky. Just as he was about to chink his goblet against hers, the pirate gulped down her beverage in one go, leaving Araris with nothing but the choice to sip his vintage in solemnness.

Discarding her goblet carelessly, Isabela said, 'Now hand me the bottle, you Fereldan posh.'

Snorting a laugh, Araris did as he was bid by the raunchy dame.

Like a new-born babe, Isabela suckled greedily at the bottle's neck. She drank as she would water. _If she'd ever drink water, that is._

After a time, Isabela gasped. 'Ah, better.'

She dismissively discarded the bottle on the floor, where it ceaselessly rolled from side to side with the ship's sway, whilst she settled down in a more comfortable position.

'I hate the Waking Sea this time of the year. Storms, harsh winds and constant rain. And then there's that bloody cold coming from your country.' She shook her head. 'Unbelievable that I ever thought this could be fun.'

Araris took a sip of his red wine. 'It'll certainly be worth it.'

'I better hope so.' She eyed him suspiciously. 'If you're who you claim to be.'

He tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear. 'So you've heard of me?'

'My first mate did. Your name made him all giddy. Said you were exiled for something indecent.'

'What would that be?'

Isabela peered at him closely, then shrugged under the blankets. 'Treason.'

A few heartbeats of silence reigned.

'The only treason I committed was my silence, and to let my family find out from others,' Araris admitted. 'My ostracism was self-imposed, for reasons that'll stay mine.'

'O,' Isabela mouthed, 'no need to get touchy, wasn't prying. I couldn't care less. You pay nicely and, on top of that, your pleasurable company.'

The raider, layers of blankets still tucked under her chin, shifted and squirmed underneath. Smirking wickedly, she then proceeded to lift them up slowly, exposing the elusive absence of garments she'd still worn when entering her cabin, replaced with her dusky skin.

'Now, crawl in here and help a damsel in distress get warm and cosy, would you.' Isabela bid.

Thankfully, Araris managed not to choke on the last savoured sip of red wine.

**.**

**.**

'Land, ho!'

It drifted even through the wooden walls encasing the captain's quarters, like a wakeup call for the two spent persons tucked inside layers of silken sheets and discarded garments. Staggeringly, it even breached the barriers of Isabela's foggy state of mind.

Araris Cousland stirred into motion almost immediately.

Pushing up, Isabela tried to follow the younger man, but because of a sharp sting of pain flaring up inside her head, she reconsidered.

_Right. Bottle of whisky. Mean. _

Defeated, she slumped back onto the cushy mattress, massaging her temple.

Besides her she felt Araris shift through blankets and fiddle around on the floor for his residual clothing. Which seemed to prove quite the challenge, considering the gloominess of the cabin. Nonetheless, he managed in an admirably short amount of time. Unlike Isabela, who wouldn't even contemplate moving any part of her weary body.

Araris whispered, 'Isabela, up!'

She turned away, causing another flare of pain to occur, and mumbled in displeasure.

Isabela heard the rustle of a leather belt getting tied around a slim waist, followed by the clink of metal as Araris attached his sheathed longsword. The whisper of his dark woollen cloak being thrown over his slender shoulders and the drawing up of his hood registered next in her befuddled mind.

Why she so desperately concentrated on these noises, Isabela didn't really know. But it helped. Marginally. And thus, she finally managed to raise herself out of her warm and embracing bed. Just as Araris rushed out the cabin's double door.

Isabela threw over a few cloths, just few enough to not distract her hearty sailors entirely, but never mind her boots. They'd be too much effort for too little gain. Well, panties, at least. Finished clothing herself, the former pirate queen pitter-pattered out of her personal cabin on bare feet.

Arrived on the sterncastle, rudder firmly in her guiding hands, Isabela scanned the vicinity with a disgruntled gaze. Unfortunately she couldn't make out much other than ogling men.

A thick coat of drowsy mist hung above the relatively calm sea. Probably a result of Ferelden's cooling temperatures and the condensation of the rainy storm that had followed them all the way east along the _Waking Sea_.

Another call echoed down from the crow's nest, in more hushed tones. 'Ships ahoy!'

'How many?' Isabela shouted back.

'Five,' came the answer, rife with hesitance. Or maybe more, though that was left unsaid.

She frowned to herself.

'What flag do they sail?'

'Amaranthine!'

Just as in that particular moment, the damp mist parted like a curtain, as if scared away by divine intervention, admitting them a short view of the city of Highever.

On the right, perched on a light slope was the city itself. Rows upon of rows of buildings and huts stretched down, slowly changing into the port warehouses and taverns, lower down on the slope. Until, these in turn, gave way for the docking facilities at the end of the slope, with a couple of ships and boats docked by the shore. In front of those, a barrier had been erected, with six Amaranthine naval ships anchored there, their bulky design making it obvious that they're suited for heavy ship-to-ship fighting.

Nothing would get past them unnoticed.

Isabela's eyes wandered to Araris Cousland. But the young nobleman registered none of it, his piercing gaze was locked onto something else. Something positioned above the city.

Head whipping around, she followed his line of sight.

Left of the city and atop a rolling hill, with steep and ragged cliffs falling off into the sea below, towered proud the castle of the Cousland family. At least, she assumed that it was. Isabela had never been entirely sober on the few occasions she was near Highever. Massive banners softly winded in the wind, like slithering snakes. The castle emitted a gentle and flickering glow.

She squinted, looking closer.

As understanding dawned, Isabela's eyes widened in shock.

It was on _fire_.

Then, as the wind suddenly shifted its direction a slight bit, noise drifted down to them. Clear and loud in its intensity.

Screams and wails, fire eating at wood and stone, the clash of metal on metal and flesh.

_By the tide._

Isabela looked over at her noble passenger, more hesitantly this time. Araris looked like a part of the ship, rooted and unmoving like carved marble. Face devoid of any human emotion. Like a lifeless husk, flat eyes stared strictly ahead, glued to his burning home. A sickly paleness clung to his skin as if all the blood in his veins had evaporated in a single heartbeat.

'Single ship's changing course!' Another shout from above. 'They've spotted us!'

'Git!' Isabela cursed herself.

She though it all over, as quick as her pissed mind would allow. The wind would be against them if they'd try to run, she was pretty confident that they could outrun these heavy and slow war-ships. But if there were other ships outside the port's enclosed space, then those would surely catch up to them, sooner or later. Or intercept them. And the Amaranthine navy, however small, wasn't to be trifled with, every sailor worth his salt knew that. Running from them like a caught lass, tumbling in the hay with the local lord's son, would be hard to explain.

She left the wheel and took to leaning on the rail, scanning the approaching vessel through narrowed eyes.

'Casavir, steer us back into the thick of the mist,' She pointed. 'Out of sight.'

Isabela paced forward to the railing in front of the wheel, addressing the tense crew below. She looked them over. _Let's hope, Andraste's swaying tits._

'If they make trouble, the bastards will kiss pirate steel.' Whatever that was worth, but the crew cheered anyways. 'But for now, we tag along.'

Isabela smirked. 'Look unmindful, lads.'

'Aye,' they chorused.

Looking over her shoulder, Isabela felt unease rising up in her belly as she looked at Araris.

**.**

**.**

A frigate, longer than the Siren's Call by many armspans, pulled up parallel alongside them. The hulls' planks nearly scraped against each other in protest. But it seemed these were indeed seasoned sailors. Many of them were clad in mail or pieces of plate armoury, as if they were expecting heavy combat, which could quickly prove to be their demise on the high seas. _Or in a fight. _

The Amaranthine ship's deck height was of slightly lower built than that of Isabela's own vessel. Jumping down from the _Siren's Call_ above on the frigate's lower decks would make boarding easier for her sailors, should it come to that.

A heavily armoured knight, his features rugged, walked up to the sterncastle's railing, leaning one gauntleted hand against it. The other rested on the pommel of his sheathed longsword.

'Ho there, sailors,' he called over, 'might I ask what you're doing in these waters?'

Isabela, also leaned lazily over the railing. Elbows perched atop, head tucked sideways like a hawk, whilst resting in one palm.

'Wanted to make port in Highever, good ser. But it seems a little tight,' with her free hand, she gestured towards the harbour.

The knight actually chuckled. 'Indeed, you have chosen an unfavourable time. It'd be wisest to sail further east and make port in Amaranthine, good woman.'

Before Isabela could respond, Araris' icy voice froze every easy conversation she tried to build up. 'If we might ask, ser, what is happening at the castle?'

The knight frowned darkly at Araris' interruption.

'Arl Howe of Amaranthine brings justice to enemies of the crown.'

'And who might those enemies be?'

'The Cousland family, lad. They've been accused of espionage against Ferelden and dallying with the Orlesian empress herself, scheming to occupy Ferelden once more.'

_Oh crap._

After a pause, the knight added, 'Thank the Maker that Arl Howe found out about their treachery.'

Isabela was completely sure that what happened next, happened incredibly fast. Yet, somehow, her eyes managed to track it nonetheless.

Like a released bowstring, Araris vaulted over the railing. His jump was accompanied by no outcry or shout, only the rustle of his clothes in the air and the rush of swaying waves. Mid-flight his longsword sprang free silently, barely audible. All the Amaranthine knight, eyes opened wide, had managed was to step a few paces back. With a creaking thud of protesting wooden planks and uncanny grace, Araris landed in front of the man, just shortly before his blade arched down and bit into the knight's clavicle. Through bone and flesh, the weapon scythed deep, nearly splitting the hapless man in half, stopping shortly under the sternum.

That was when the shouting and screaming and calling began. Everything fell into disarray.

Only Araris moved with clinical precision across the sterncastle's deck. Two men tried to block his path down the stairs onto the ship's main deck. The first lost his sword arm and plummeted over the railing's edge in agony. The second soldier swung his axe in a horizontal arc at Araris' exposed neck. But all his strike met was thin air, thus he lost his balance, stumbling right into the nobleman's waiting blade. He shrieked like a wild pig pierced by a throwing lance. Looked alike, too.

Extricating the longsword from the soldier's torso with a savage yank, Araris kick him down the staircase and into the arms of upwards rushing soldiery. They went down in a heap.

Shaking herself free, Isabela waved her hand unceremoniously. 'Quick, lads!'

Her sailors boarded the Amaranthine vessel with hoots, attacking everything in sight that wasn't distinctively piratic and roguish. Scimitars flashed in the moonlight. Sprays and spurts of blood answered. It took only a few dozen heartbeats. When all men on deck were overwhelmed they began to clear the decks below.

With a graceful leap, Isabela crossed the short distance between the two vessels. Sounds of fighting and dying could still be heard from under deck. But up here, everything seemed relatively serene. If it weren't for the bloodied corpses. She began following the trail of carnage, leading her steadily towards the forward deck. In between, unmoving and obviously dead, lay some of her sailors. Her jaw clenched.

One soldier's head had been nearly cut off, though there still existed a spinal connection. Exposed, it glinting ghastly and bony white in the night's silvery light. So at odds with all the gore and the dark wooden planks. Another had been pinned to the ship's foremast, slumped forward, with Araris' longsword protruding from his belly. Yet another mangled soul had lost both his legs beneath the kneecaps, cleanly severed. Not even a healer would be of much help here. He would bleed out fairly quick, but for now he was still clutching to his rapidly fading life. Isabela couldn't bear his pained sobs, so she freed him.

She found Araris at the forefront of the ship, straddling a lying corpse at the waist like a lover. Neither did move. But then again, she heard silent pleas for mercy. So maybe no corpse. Taking a few more paces forward, she could see that Araris clutched the hilt of a pale dagger with both his hands, trying to push its curved edge downward. But the desperate soldier beneath fought for every inch with mad despair.

As she came into view, the soldier's eyes flickered to her, with what emotion, she couldn't rightly say. Could've been hope or fear or something entirely else, Isabela would never know. Because, in just that single heartbeat, Araris succeeded in driving his dagger down and into the man's soft neck. The dying soldier coughed up blood with his last breath.

Araris did not move. He still clutched his dagger, finger bones protruding in a ghoulish way and knuckles white from pressure.

The he let loose an equally chilling and heart-wrenching cry of anguish.

The young man slumped back on his shins, hands cradled in his lap in a lost fashion. He looked over the ship's prow, seemingly admiring the moon's silvery reflection on the calm water.

'Araris.' Isabela croaked. Surprised at the dryness of her own voice, she cleared her throat.

Ten heartbeats of silence followed. Twenty heartbeats. Fifty heartbeats.

Sure that he wouldn't answer or hadn't heard her, or chose not to, Isabela stepped closer, touching his left shoulder. With a surprised hiss he flinched away from her, onto his feet and drew back from her, clutching the reeling. That was when she spotted the crossbow quarrel deeply lodged inside his left shoulder. He, too, seemed to register it for the first time, for his hiss quickly turned from surprise to hurt.

In a blokeish manner he extracted the projectile with a sudden yank in a gush of blood. Ghastly pale now, Araris gasped, legs nearly giving out beneath him.

Isabela couldn't contain herself any longer. 'Why, by the Maker's balls, did you do that?'

'What?' He looked flummoxed.

'Attack them!' Isabela huffed. 'We could've left without an incident. Men died because you didn't think. My men, my sailors'

Araris perplexed expression darkened into something uncomfortable. He stepped closer to her. She could feel his breath caressing her skin, like a gentle breeze.

'They're slaughtering my family up there!' He hissed, venom thick in his voice. 'My father, my mother, my brother and his wife and their firstborn son.'

He returned to leaning on the reeling, seemingly wanting to bring some space between them.

Araris shook his head sharply. 'By the Abyss, what did you think I'd do when that whoreson dragged my family through the mire? Crawl up his arse with pleasantries?'

'You could've just shut up or went underdeck. Where you could've shut up, too! Now the Amaranthine navy will have it out for me!' Isabela yelled at him. 'And they're not known for treating pirates kindly.'

She pointed an accusing finger at the nobleman. 'I don't care that they're slaughtering your family up there. You put my life and that of my crew at risk, for petty reasons. What did it bring you? Hmm?'

She pointed behind her, at the corpses covering the deck.

'Andraste's tits, they're not even the ones doing the slaughtering.'

There was a flickering spark, icy blue, in Araris' eyes. Literally. It was over so quick, Isabela wasn't even sure she really saw it, or if her mind perceived things.

Araris gazed at her in disdain, an ugly sneer on his face, teeth bared. His fingers twitched as if readying to grab a weapon, but he was unarmed. His longsword still pinned a hapless marine to the main mast, whilst his pale dagger stuck inside the nearby soldier's throat.

Isabela was thankful for that. Otherwise she wouldn't be so sure if he would've soon done something regrettable for them both.

The tension between them dissipated palpably, when her fellow buccaneers rejoined them on the main deck.

Casavir walked up to them, expression sober and alert, he switched between looking at Isabela and Araris. He seemed to have caught on to the tension between them.

'We've secured the ship, captain. Lots of loot to be found below.'

Isabela turned to the gathering. 'God job, lads.'

The rattle of sabres and the howls of adrenaline-filled men came in answer.

Isabela spread her arms in an encompassing gesture. 'Take everything shiny you can find! And then all the rest!'

Her crew sauntered off to claim their loot and freight it onto the _Siren's Call_. Time was now of the essence. They had to get away from here as quick as possible.

Isabela looked back at Araris.

His posture had changed. Shoulders slumped a bit, flat look in his eyes, skin continued to be a ghastly pale. His dead and defeated appearance was furthermore reflected in his voice. Devoid of emotion, he spoke in chilly and croaky tones.

'Forgive me, captain,' he spoke slow, 'If it wouldn't be too much to ask for, could you drop me off in Amaranthine?'

Isabela huffed at his antics. 'Maker's breath, are you insane. Why, of all places, would you want to go there now? If I think about it, I don't want to go there right now!'

'It would be the unexpected thing to do. The one place the Amaranthine navy wouldn't think to look.'

'And you?' Isabela arched a delicate eyebrow. 'You're just going to butcher every Amaranthine soldier you find?'

'A tempting thought, but to hope that by doing so I'd manage to kill Rendon Howe would be foolish,' said he, voice as if he iterated something off of a scrap of paper. As if those were not his own words. As if it wasn't him speaking.

Araris turned his head away in a silent rustle of bright hair. Radiant in the lucid moonlight. Blatantly he had said what he wanted to say, and would add nothing more. It left Isabela a silence to contemplate in.

She sighed. 'Very well.'

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I bid you to take a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to._


	4. A Gathering of Clouds

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so._

_Here's the next chapter. This time a slow paced one, with a reminiscent and thoughful Araris. A bit of setting up for future events, too. Maybe you'll spot it. Enjoy!_

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter IV**

**A Gathering of Clouds**

**.**

**.**

Araris had found shelter in Amaranthine's more common and worn districts. He currently stayed at a small, shabby inn, on the south-western edge of the city. Earlier that day he'd scouted the negligibly less guarded city gateway nearby. Should the desperate need to leave quick and quiet arrive.

Seated behind a worn wooden table in a gloomier corner of the inn, he sat like some road-weary traveller. A single candle burned down slowly, lighting his lonely spot in warm flickers. Hardened wax coated the brass saucer underneath.

Placed before him were plates, now barren of steaming chowder with bits of potato and herbs and spice floating inside. A small pot with a ladle inside, discarded at the table's unoccupied side, filled with leftovers from the odd tasting fish-soup. Besides the plates, slices of stale bread to dip into the soup, a nearly emptied bottle of cheap and sour red wine and a glass occupied the table.

Araris sat on a wooden stool, his back perched against the cold stone wall behind him. Broodingly, he inhaled idle breaths of his pipe, the languorous taste of the Antivan pipe weed tingling deep down in the caverns of his lungs.

As he'd first entered the small tavern the sky had been pouring rain for hours, ever since he arrived in Amaranthine. Cloth soaked wet, a painful cold gnawing at his weary bones. Surprised heads snapped up at his entrance, because of the unexpected hour he arrived at. Only a few dreary guests greeted him. Eyes roamed over his drenched woollen travelling cloak, hiding his prominent features. Scabbarded longsword slung diagonally over his back, peeking over his right shoulder, nobody had spoken up. Just another desperate soul, seeking shelter from the rough weather.

After being assured that he wouldn't cause trouble, the large innkeeper offered him shelter from the harsh elements, bed and warm food for the night.

The only thing sadly absent, which he needed doubtlessly, was a bath. Never in his life had he felt this filthy and soiled. The scent of sweat and salt clung to his skin and clothes. He just wanted to take a long bath and scrub every last bit of dirt off his sore body.

The scarring wound from the crossbow bolt in his shoulder still itched terribly. His left arm still hadn't regained its full motoric functionality, sending spikes of pain and unease through his shoulder with every movement.

But life had changed and if he were to guess, he'd say that he was looking forward to a bitter and cynic life. Constant danger lurking in every shadow and hiding behind every tree and corner. As long as Rendon Howe lived, there'd be no peaceful moment for him.

Of that, Araris was sure.

**.**

**.**

Ferelden was in political turmoil. To put it nicely.

The only word associated with the Battle of Ostagar, and the late king's stand there, was either disaster or betrayal. It varied from mouth to mouth. Yet, better it did never get.

Word was that Teyrn Loghain had been able to draw back with most of his men in the nick of time. _Quite fortunate, that._ Saving thousands of soldiers' lives, a sizable portion even hailing from Highever. Not his brother, though, if rumours were to be believed. Araris had heard that Highever's remaining soldiery had left with Arl Bryland and Bann Alfstanna after the Landsmeet, but other than that, nothing.

Both of them are, after all, deeply loyal vassals to the Cousland family, and Leonas Bryland is, furthermore, distantly related to his family on the maternal side.

But all that was irrelevant, he could change nothing about any of it. So, to mull over what-ifs and what's-not availed him nothing other than a waste of precious time.

Yet, the cost of Loghain's retreat had been high. The royal forces had been obliterated down to the last man. His majesty, the young King Cailan had been murdered and betrayed by the Grey Wardens, who, in secret, conspired with Orlais' empress Celene.

_Just like my family._

Then there was also talk about the Landsmeet. And how things had turned sour very quick. Loghain had declared himself regent in light of the king's premature demise. Even going as far as pushing his own daughter, Queen Anora, off the throne and discard her like a wooden doll. Naturally Ferelden's numerous banns and arls and lords hadn't liked this kind of self-coronation.

Civil war was imminent and couldn't, by now in Araris' opinion, be avoided. That the queen, rightful in her legitimacy for the throne, did not oppose her father in the slightest hadn't helped either.

The divided banns wouldn't settle down peacefully. One side supporting Loghain and his armies in smothering the resistance, emanating from those banns who'd oppose Loghain's shady grab of regency.

Unsurprisingly, he was, after all, only a common man by birth. To have him govern as Ferelden's regent in the absence of a king during this time of strife would've affronted many a noble. Araris was sure of that.

Yet the man was, undoubtedly, an accomplished general and the most trusted advisor of two kings, by now, which would lure a considerable part of the Landsmeet onto his side. Either out of respect or out of fear.

And thus, two sides on opposite ends of the fence were created. Ready to charge each other with zeal. To spill the blood of brothers and fellow men. It was what the banns did in their infinite boredom, after all. They'd go to war with each other for petty things like elopements, wool and apple trees. This time they actually had a reason.

But, alas, what incredibly poor timing. Darkspawn weren't much interested in human politics and infighting.

Lastly, there was _that_ talk. The talk that made Araris stomach churn with seething rage and devouring hatred. Talk that made his fingers twitch, aching to curl around the grip of his weapon.

Rumours and whispers about the shady events at Castle Cousland, now put to the torch. Nothing but a smoking and blackened ruin remained, if the reports were indeed true.

The great Arl Howe, who thwarted a most treacherous plot of spies and liars and traitors. Rendon Howe, who did Ferelden proud with his selfless actions, stopping the planned invasion of legions of Orlesian chevaliers in its tracks. Rendon Howe who rightfully claimed the Teyrinr of Highever for himself and sacked the Arling of Denerim after a vicious mob ripped Vaughan Kendells, the de facto ruler of the arling - after his father died at Ostagar - to shreds. Araris had only remembered distant stories considering the Vaughan family, grim tales of sexual abuse in Denerim's alienage.

Yet other voices whispered other tales. The insidious Arl Howe, who in a fit of madness and lust for power, slaughtered the entire bloodline of the Couslands, to the last man, woman and child. Even the servants and maids. None were left alive. Just like the castle, he burnt down anyone who could know and voice the truth to oppose him.

He felt a pang of gratefulness at those voices.

But Araris didn't care for the truth. He only wanted Rendon Howe in the same room.

Whichever was the truth to the peasant folk, the fact remained, that as Arl of Amaranthine and Denerim as well as Teyrn of Highever, Rendon Howe could doubtlessly call himself the most powerful man in the entire kingdom. His armed forces would outnumber even Loghain's. Not to forget Denerim's city guard.

The last piece of local news, however accurate, was about Castle Redcliffe. If the rumours were true, Arl Eamon, a strong and respected voice in the Landsmeet, who had been mysteriously absent at the time, had fallen ill to an enigmatic sickness. Therefore his good wife, the Arlessa of Redcliffe, Isolde, had sent out her knights in a, if Araris would be asked, misguided and preposterous search for the Sacred Urn of Andraste's ashes.

When he'd heard that, he'd choked on his glass of wine. But well, legend said the ashes of the holy woman cured any illness. Common folk, unsurprisingly, liked their tales painted illustrious. An arlessa however should know better, than to bet everything on fancy tales and legend.

Araris himself believed it all to be plebeian rubbish. Common folk must believe in something, after all. Thus, there must be another, more logical explanation for the further absence of news from Redcliffe.

Having sat long enough in the shabby Amaranthine tavern, eavesdropping on patrons to gather information, the last living member of the Cousland family decided to finally get going.

Of course, he knew that simply running around and slaughtering every Amaranthine soldier wouldn't get him the opportunity to deliver bittersweet vengeance. It was tempting to just let it all out, unleash his rage.

Tempting, but _foolish_.

He'd need support.

And with Highever's troops vanished somewhere under the command of Arl Bryland, simply riding into the Bannorn and hoping to find them was ludicrous at best. He'd be just like Arlessa Isolde and a hypocrite, on top of that, for thinking little about her.

So, if Araris rode to Redcliffe, maybe he could manage to convince the elderly arl for his cause. Redcliffe's army hadn't participated in the Battle of Ostagar, thus the arl's armed forces would be at full strength, with the addition of the troops the arl's brother, Teagan, would contribute to Araris' cause, if he managed to forge an alliance, then that would make quite a formidable armed force.

At least it was something solid to start with.

**.**

**.**

The small fire cackled delightfully. Embers ascended into the cool of night. Greedily, its flames ate at the surrounding air and timber blocks. Shades of blissful orange coated the immediate vicinity. Crickets chirped in the otherwise silent night.

Araris sat on a boulder in front of the hearth.

Affixed on a wooden branch above the licking fire, a brass pot hung. With his ladle he stirred around the contents of his simmering stew. Pieces of potatoes and beans and tomatoes swirled alongside slices of chopped lamb meat seasoned with spices and herbs, all soused in the contents of a bottle of cheap red wine.

After nearly two weeks of travel, stew classified as a royal feast for him. Thankfully, he'd been able to resupply in the village of Lothering, for his supplies had been nearly depleted. Araris hadn't been sure if avoiding the village would've been better, but in the end the prosaic need for a decent hot meal and the prospect of an actually warm bed won.

Full ladle guided to his waiting mouth, Araris tasted a bite of his stew. Deeming it ready, he grabbed a wooden bowl, another new tool he acquired in Lothering, and filled it to brim with steaming stew. Then, he feasted royally.

Afterwards, he cleaned the bowl at a nearby stream, before he got his wooden pipe, stuffed it with Antivan weed and lit it. Leaning his tied bed roll against the boulder, he sprawled out in front of the fire, head resting easily against his make-shift pillow.

For a time his mind drifted off, befuddled and hazy, occupied with the task of simply blowing smoke rings into the air, watching them under heavy eyelids.

Till his faithful Orlesian mare nickered in response to the rustle of undergrowth nearby. Araris jumped up quickly, head swirling considerably from the pipe weed. But ingrained muscle memory couldn't be toppled by a bit of pipe weed.

The young nobleman lunged for his scabbarded longsword, resting in the grass beside him, and drew it. He discarded the sheath back onto the ground, clutching his weapon in a two-handed grip.

'Show yourself!' Spoke he to the shadows.

And the shadows answered. 'I mean no harm, good man.' They sounded appeasing.

Then, the shadows parted and into the hearth's light stepped a man. Clad in worn mail and scratched plate armour, a shield shouldered and a sword sheathed at his hip. Palms open, he held his hands out to his sides, clear to see.

'I am Ser Stanley of Redcliffe,' the middle-aged man introduced himself.

Araris lowered his sword, though he didn't sheath it.

'And what, Ser Stanley of Redcliffe, do you seek at my fire?'

'Only a place to rest. With company and food if you're willing to give it. I am not very apt at . . . well, survival outside society.'

Araris looked the polite knight over. _Could be worse._

'I welcome you then, Ser Stanley of Redcliffe. Eat and drive the chill from your bones at my fire.' Araris sheathed his sword and sat down on the boulder again, still alert.

'Many thanks and may the Maker's light continue to shine upon you.'

_Of course, may he._

Opposite him, Ser Stanley set aside his iron shield on the ground. And, indeed, there was the heraldry of Redcliffe painted onto it. Which did not mean that much by itself, he could've looted it from a fresh corpse.

Opening his leather belt, wrapped around his hips, the Redcliffe knight removed his sheathed sword and discarded it beside his shield.

Trusting the man far enough not to try to kill him, Araris rummaged inside his saddlebag for the wooden bowl. Found, he held it out for Ser Stanley to grab. The knight did so and nodded his thanks, before pausing.

After a while he asked, 'how should I call you, good ser?'

Araris used what few heartbeats of time remained, before the question would pass over into awkward silence, to think. Obviously, he couldn't introduce himself as who he really was, the son of a teyrn. And as some believed, that of a traitor. Unable to gauge the opposite person's opinion after such a short time, assuming the persona of a knight would do fine.

It would allow him to explain many of the things he owned, which many peasant people couldn't. But most of all, he'd be able to explain the possession of an Orlesian horse of fine breed without soliciting too many raised eyebrows.

'I am Ser Araris . . . of Highever,' Araris answered.

The Redcliffe knight smiled slightly at him in response. 'Well met, Ser Araris of Highever.'

A though crossed Araris' mind. _Maybe he hasn't heard about what happened at Highever._

Ser Stanley filled the wooden bowl with the remnants of Araris' stew and began to eat. His features lit up somewhat, possible at the certainty of hot food filling his growling stomach.

Once the knight finished his meal, looking content and overly satisfied, Araris asked him a question that had gnawed at him for a while.

'Would you tell me, Ser Stanley, what are you doing out here?'

'Ah, you see, my arl has been taken by a mysterious sickness. The arlessa, Maker bless her and her son, sent many of us knights out to search for a cure.'

'Forgive me, but how would knights know a cure for a sickness they do not even understand.'

'It's true, knights wouldn't know much about leechcraft.' With a croak of metal plate's shifting against each other, Ser Stanley scratched his neck. 'But the arlessa sent us out to search for healers, if need be even apostates, for the Circle of Magi's templars wouldn't permit us the help of mages.'

He hesitated shortly in his narration.

'Yet, most of us, were sent to find a certain brother of the Chantry. Genetivi he is called.'

Araris frowned. 'I've heard of Brother Genetivi, read some of his work, too. How would he be able to help, he is not healer nor is he able to practise magic of any sorts.'

'True again, good ser. But the brother was on a quest to locate our holy Andraste's resting place. It is said that her ashes cure all illness, and Brother Genetivi allegedly was close to finding it.'

Araris wanted to scratch out his eyes and scream his dismay loud into the night. Somehow, he managed to stay calm, concentrating on simply breathing.

_How could the arlessa? What madness drove the woman to such a ludicrous idea? There'd be no army at Redcliffe. Their armed forces would be scattered to the four winds. Like stray puppies searching for something, the arlessa's own madness burning bright in their eyes._

Araris shook his head, trying to banish his thoughts. They'd only upset him further, if he overthought the situation now. No use for that.

So he asked, 'I take it you journey to Redcliffe, then?'

'Indeed, I do.'

'Perfect, then we shall journey there together, for it is also my destination.'

From under scrunched eyebrows, Ser Stanley peered at him, though not in an impolite way, only with curiosity.

'Is that so, what business brings you there?'

'I have business with Arl Eamon, but after what you just told me, that could prove a bit difficult to achieve.' Araris sighed.

_No other place to go, after all. Something solid, pah!_

.

.

Araris gently led his horse along the reins. Side by side he walked with Ser Stanley of Redcliffe, for the man possessed no mount of his own.

But Araris didn't mind the delay in time they'd spend in travelling to Redcliffe on foot. There was no pressing reason for him to go there now, with the arl sick, that is.

The polite voice of Ser Stanley dragged him out of his dreary thoughts.

'A very beautiful beast you have there, Ser Araris. She caught my eye the moment I laid eyes upon her.'

'Yes, I found her on a trip for my teyrn in Orlais.' Araris caressed the dark mare's neck, twirling its soft mane between his fingers. He smiled in spite of himself. 'I couldn't leave her there. Now could I, Kelpie dear?'

'A fine name for a fine beast, indeed, Ser Araris.' The knight looked Araris' mount over with admiring eyes. 'If there is one thing Orlesians really know about, then it is horses. One has to give them that.'

'True, Ser Stanley.'

They continued on in silence for a few bells' time. Only stopping shortly to eat a few stripes of dried bacon.

When they spotted wreathes of black smoke rise high in the distance, the knight gasped. Never a good sign, that.

'By the Maker, what is happening? That must be coming from the village.'

The Redcliffe knight accelerated his paces, moving with distraught haste. Before too long, he'd be tired out. But Araris made no move to stop the man. Absently, he could relate.

'Maybe one of the buildings caught fire, many of them have hay roofs,' the knight tried to persuade nature around them. He probably didn't convince himself, certainly not Araris, so he must be talking to someone else.

Soon after, the tension in Ser Stanley all but decreased, coming down from the hills they arrived on a ridge overlooking Redcliffe village. No house burned, only small rowboats sailing out onto Lake Calenhad. They'd been set on fire with purpose.

Ser Stanley, peering down on his homestead, looked pale.

Then a man, dressed in common leathers, arrived. A longbow and a quiver with a few arrows peeked over one shoulder. He ran towards them over the stone-cobbled bridge, straddling a rushing river, leading over to a natural intersection. He waved and shouted incomprehensible words at them.

One path of the natural intersection wound up through the cliffs and across an enormously long bridge, which in turn led to an island where the ancient Castle Redcliffe sat perched atop, whilst the second path of the intersection led down into the village, cowering in the shadow of the reddish cliffs above.

Bowed with hands on his knees the peasant caught his breath with ragged gasps.

In between them, 'I knew I saw someone coming,' he pressed out.

Agitation evidently rising up in Ser Stanley at the peasant's continued inability to find neither breath nor voice, Araris put a comforting hand on the smaller man's broad shoulders. Ser Stanley looked at him, then nodded hesitantly in consent.

Finding the ability to do so, the commoner spoke up. 'Have you come to help?' Desperation oozed palpable out of his voice.

It was the Redcliffe knight who answered, his usual politeness absent. 'Help? What's happened?'

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I bid you to take a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to._


	5. Memories in Ice

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter V**

**Memories in Ice**

**.**

**.**

Last night had been the worst since it all began.

By now, everyone walked with slumped shoulders and a flat and desperate glaze clouding their eyes. Once precise movements now seemed dull and ineffective. Unusual for families of fishermen and farmers.

Yet, who could blame them. Teagan surely wouldn't.

Every human being would bend and break, sooner rather than later, what with the pressure the whole village had been under for numerous days and nights now.

And last night, Maker fend, they'd lost so many to the rising dead.

With only wavering courage and little to no hope left, many villagers hadn't fought for survival. They'd fought to find peace in death. Throwing themselves into the droves of foul creatures in a last desperate attempt at valour, they'd embraced their fate. And rejoined their loved ones again, at the Maker's side, if He willed it so. Snapping and clawing and yapping creatures that so much resembled friends and loved ones, it was horrifyingly obnoxious. Which made fighting and killing them all the harder.

Every night was beyond dark, whilst days weren't better. Bulging with savage terror as they were. The utmost certainty of knowing that it'd begin anew after dusk viciously mangled what brittle shreds remained of the people's paling hope. And many stayed down, content to resign to their cruel fates, for they saw no other path in front of them. Because of mortal fear, their sight, obscured as it was, couldn't, or wouldn't, pierce the peradventure which lay in front of them.

Truly, a nightmarish gloom trapping them all without mercy.

Afternoon had already arrived, the sun slowly dimming its intense midsummer stare. Shades of burgundy and violet would soon usurp the sky. Thus granting them barely nine full bells' time. For preparation and the drawing up and rebuilding of what sparse and poor defences they could muster. Then, only reverent and faithful prayer to the Maker and His beloved bride for guidance remained as their last resort.

Teagan, too, found himself faltering in his resolve. Every day always a bit more.

He heaved a long, heavy sigh.

'We must get Owen to work again,' the Bann of Rainesfere spoke, 'without proper armaments we'll not survive the night. Metal and leather are our only advantages over those things.'

The knight who had arrived with him in Redcliffe, merely a few days prior, bowed and left to fulfil his futile task. Entirely too few armed men, worth their salt, Teagan had taken with him. But he couldn't leave his own lands unprotected during such times of strife. And who'd been able to anticipate that such abhorrent horrors would await him in Redcliffe village. He sure did not.

With civil war's erratic wrath nearly upon them, this crisis couldn't have befallen them at a more inconvenient time.

The Chantry building's heavy double doors squeaked open, metal hinges and wood protesting beseechingly. Resting on an unadorned wooden armchair at the back of the building, throbbing brow cradled in his worn hand, Teagan looked up at two newcomers, strangers.

A peculiar pair they were.

One looked vaguely familiar, carrying his bearing as a knight fairly obvious. He moved with proficient ease, albeit squeaking steps inside his scratched plate armour. Once Teagan spotted the dented iron shield carrying Redcliffe's coat of arms, he remembered the man's face, from past visits in his brother's castle, though still not his name. A knight of Eamon's personal guard.

The other one, well, there was something about him that prompted recognition to flare up in Teagan's mind like a crumpled piece of paper tossed into the fire. But Teagan was sure he'd remember a young man of such conspicuous height. Of course, there's also the prominent mane of bright hair. Yet, something there was, something he couldn't put his finger on . . . something else.

Plaintively, Teagan rose out of his chair.

'Bann Teagan,' the Redcliff knight bowed at the hip, hands crossed over his chest, 'I greet you. I am Ser Stanley.'

_Right, that's the name. _

Teagan nodded in greeting. 'It is good to see a familiar face, Ser Stanley. Especially during such dire times.'

A serious look covered the knights aged features. 'What exactly has happened here, Bann Teagan? We weren't told much.'

Teagan pinched his nose. 'I shall tell you then, but first – who is your companion, Ser Stanley?'

The knight's posture stiffen a bit, eyes widening ever so slightly. 'Ah, how rude of me.' Ser Stanley scratched the growing bristle on his chiselled chin. 'Bann Teagan, this is Ser Araris of Highever. I met him on the road, thankfully he was kind enough to share his food and fire with me.'

The bann looked up at the young man, for he indeed had to. At least half a head taller towered he, if not more. 'I would welcome you with joy, Ser Araris of Highever, if I could.' Teagan squinted at the younger man. 'Tell me, have we met, there is something about you that seems awfully familiar.'

'I don't believe we have, my lord. This is my first time in Redcliffe, I travelled here seeking audience with Arl Eamon, but Ser Stanley here already informed me of his tragic condition.'

To try and gauge the young knight's current thoughts and emotions was like trying to guess what a statue mulled about. Forever carved in stone, gazing upon the same vista every day.

'Alas, sadly that's the truth.' Hands behind his back, the bann began to pace. 'Though even I know nothing about the circumstances surrounding it. In actuality, I journeyed here in response to my brother's sudden illness.' Teagan shook his head, an aching tightness in his chest. 'Once I arrived I found the village in very much the same state as you see it now. Every night anew, foul and evil things come forth from the castle and attack without mercy.'

Stopping his frantic pacing, Teagan closed his eyes and breathed out through flaring nostrils. Gathering himself, Teagan looked at Ser Araris of Highever, scrutinising his face closely.

'A question if you allow, ser?' At the young knight's nod, Teagan continued, 'If you knew of my brother, the arl, and his illness and, further, his current . . . unavailability, why did you still come here?'

Ser Araris of Highever lowered his eyes shortly and a flicker of something crossed his features. Teagan knew not what exactly, though it seemed to haunt the younger man. A clenched jaw here and a slight wince there.

'I feared,' as he spoke, he did so with uncertainty, 'that you hadn't heard the news.'

In response Teagan had to frown, unsure of what exactly the knight talked about. 'I do not understand. You speak of the Blight? Or the civil war?'

_What else of matter is there to know these days?_

'Alas, it is neither. True, to the south the Blight's dreadful pestilence and shadow spreads quickly. And, yes, the east is ravaged by turmoil and civil war. Yet, what I speak about happened in the north.'

Ser Araris of Highever's voice broke at the end. As quick as it happened – which brought a surprised look to Ser Stanley's face – it ended again, and the young knight continued on.

'The north is ruled by vile treachery. Highever has fallen, Bann Teagan, at Arl Howe's hands.'

Teagan slumped back into his armchair, suddenly feeling utterly deflated. _This is bad, indeed. Worse than bad, much worse. The one family that could have openly opposed Loghain._ Desperate to grab something, he ruffled through his hair.

He grasped for straws, however thin. 'What of the Couslands?'

Ser Araris of Highever answered, eyes dull and far away, 'Dead.'

_No. It cannot, mustn't be. One of Ferelden's eldest bloodlines, simply . . . gone._

'Andraste guide us.'

**.**

**.**

As soon as the bann had finished filling them in on Redcliffe Village's desperate situation, Araris had to leave the Chantry building with panicked haste. Even those few words about Highever and his family brought him to the brink of hyperventilation. Araris had heard the flicker of vengeful fire and wrenching screams, carried over the calm sea again. He felt as if he would suffocate inside the Chantry's thick cobblestone walls, all the huddling people surrounding him with their lost gaze, closing him in. Pressuring until there was nothing left of his being other than tiny crumbles.

And he had to maintain control. Always. Otherwise he was unsure what would happen.

_Focus. Focus on that dark pit deep inside of your soul. Focus on its stillness. Focus on its chilly touch, calming your nerves. Know it. Reach it. Grab it. Remember it. Memorise it. Be it! _

She'd told him this once. It seemed a lifetime ago, yet wasn't.

And as he hastily passed the mass of villagers, doing whatever villagers were doing in times of war, or something akin to it – which this probably classified as such for them – Araris' raging mind registered none of their activities.

Harsh and dismissively he flung open the door of a solitary and abandoned building, near the lake. Limbs weighting heavy and feeling numb, Araris propped down on the wooden flooring, back pressed against a low counter.

Knees drawn up, arms crossed above them with his head resting inside, he slowly found it. That chilly crevasse, so deep down that only gloom existed, pure dark. It beckoned him, welcomed him with its soothing temperature, stilling his thoughts and emotions, freezing them solid. He crawled into the crevasse and stayed there for a while, content and utterly motionless.

He remembered the bann's earlier words. Vivisecting every word that had been said and analysing it in detail, like some mad hermit hunched over a poor animal studying the inner workings of its body, simply out of scientific curiosity. Or boredom.

'The people are losing hope.' The bann had spoken. A truth, and a painful one at that. Soldiers, no matter how well – in this case not at all – trained, without a spark of hope they'd lose their spirit. To fight and to live.

To Araris' ears, the bann had sounded as if the same could be said about him. Wary and slowly filled with dread, like a wooden barrel continuously filled with red wine from a larger one. The dark bags thick under his eyes like a heavy coat of kohl and shoulders slumped by a miniscule amount more than seemed normal for the man.

Araris felt beaten, too.

Though not because of the reappearance of Highever's haunting spectres. Momentarily, those memories were frozen shut, far beyond reach and hidden deep.

No, rather because of his current situation. Not particularly because of the village being under attack by a dark, evil force nor because of the suffering of all the people around him, with their red-rimmed eyes and snuffy noses.

Araris had expected to arrive in Redcliffe, under the guise of a simple messenger, and exchange pleasantries and words with Arl Eamon. Before revealing his true identity and dancing the dance of politics and intrigue and half-truths with the elderly man, which Eamon was rumoured to love so much. And was no doubt apt at navigating through these murky waters, even in such strife-torn times. Though Araris himself couldn't be described as a novice either.

Yet none of that was to be granted by fate. Oh, cruel fate. It seemed to taunt and mock him. Hunched in patience until he snapped to deliver the final blow, the blow that would end it all, leaving him with nothing but a yawning abyss ready to swallow him. Then he, too, would only be a memory in ice.

Hidden in gloomy depths, were no creature of Thedas could hope to see.

Slowly melting into oblivion, fading from memory.

Instead fate had granted him another place of misery and death. Not an armed force strong enough to stand up against Howe and Loghain and fight to clear his family's befuddled name. Not a single knight would follow him out of Redcliffe village. Of course, that would imply his leaving alive.

Instead of hope and a prospect for the future, fate had granted him the exact opposite. A place devoid of hope and future, maybe even bereft of watching the sun rise one more time.

Nothing would come of him staying and defending the village. Only the cost of his life as a near certainty. He should just saddle up and ride far away, maybe travel back to Antiva, things had looked brighter there. In Antiva and the past.

Yet, why then had he told Bann Teagan, 'My sword is yours, my lord.'

Severe mental illness or a peculiar feverish decease came first to mind, shortly followed by a fit of masochistic madness. Or maybe – and the though hit him harder than he would've ever expected – he simply had lost hope. Like all the other peasant people, with only a wish for salvation left. Salvation in death.

He felt the ice crack. Fissures broke open like a giant spider's web.

The decrepit building's door banged open hard, against the brick wall. Admitting a dishevelled lass, eyes rimmed with redness and flowing tears, nose snottily and her cupid's bow glistening with nasal fluids.

Araris tried to keep his memories from bursting free in violence with all his strength. He stopped his attempts in satisfaction, only after a towering glacier embraced them in a crushing hug.

'Bevin!' cried the lass, eyes shut, leaning into the room whilst her arms clutched the doorframe.

Newfound and irritating stimulation tugged at the back of Araris' skull. He could feel her emotions and the whispers of her thoughts, she oozed them so palpably he could feel them caressing his skin with a lover's gentle touch, taste them like a spiced meal hot on his tongue, breathe them in like a long, languorous taste from his pipe on a midsummer eve.

_Despair._

_Loss._

_Failure._

_Fear._

A voice whispered to him. The same inner voice that urged him to feed on the emotions of this untouched and innocent lass and nourish his strength on her despair and fear. Oh, how sweet it would taste, even a single bite, a lone touch, a curious sniff.

Araris shook his head, before he stood and faced the girl.

'Who is it you are searching for, lass?'

'Bevin, my brother,' she sniffled.

Araris Cousland bid her in with a gesture of his hand. As she closed the door behind her with a thump, Araris took the building's room in for the first time. It seemed to have been a general store. Once upon a time, at least. Certainly not now, with dust and webs covering everything, while rust crawled up all made out of metal.

After spotting a few closed barrels, Araris threw a look at the meek girl. She hadn't even taken more than a few paces into the room.

'What's your name?' The lass looked ready to balk at a moment's notice back out the door.

Head low, her eyes darted up only for a heartbeat, gazing at him, before they travelled down to the rotting wood flooring again.

'Kaitlyn,' she peeped.

Turning his back to her, Araris unsheathed his curved dagger and broke open a barrel's lid with the blade's tip, checking its contents with curiosity.

_My, my. What have we here? Might this be a spark, bright enough to ignite the fires of hope? Or merely a procrastination of the inevitable?_

Satisfied he turned back towards Kaitlyn, who'd cowered back a bit at the sight of his pale dagger, thus he sheathed the weapon at the back of his belt again.

As he slowly - and as non-threatening as possible - walked towards her and laid a reassuring hand on her slim, heaving shoulder, she only flinched slightly. It brought a rare smile to his face, even though he felt his reassurance empty and hollow.

'Then let's find your brother, shall we?'

She nodded, eyes wide, pupils dilated.

**.**

**.**

Light was scarce. The sun had nearly withdrawn its own gentle caress. Redcliffe Village was already devoid of direct natural light, shielded from it by the towering, reddish cliffs on one side and the lone, eerily silent castle on the other.

Soon the sun would've set and night would be upon them. Then nothing could prevent the foul evil the creep forth from its hiding place by day. The night would not protect Redcliffe Village from the rising corpses. It would be like an open invitation to a grand feast.

At least, the simple fishers and farmers and Teagan himself had thought so, not a few bells ago. But, thankfully, things had changed considerably. Their prayers had been heard and the Maker's answer had arrived in the form of a single, young knight. A man of charisma and absolute faith, in himself and a force of good existing in this world. A knight from Highever, who managed to instil a small spark of hope back into the people's hearts.

Even now, after talking to several bystanders during the time, Teagan was none the wiser how, by the Abyss, Ser Araris of Highever had persuaded the local blacksmith, Owen, to return to his handicraft. Repairing worn and broken chainmail, bended and split plate armour and patch up holes in leather harnesses so they'd be of use once more.

Teagan had no clue what Ser Araris' words had been to the drunken and grief-stricken blacksmith – whose daughter had worked at the castle when the dead first arose – to remind the man of his duties to those who still walked among the living.

Trekking up the steep slope and crossing the small bridge spanning the roaring waterfall which split Redcliffe's renowned reddish cliffs, the bann gazed down on the village.

He stopped, as so unexpected and foreign did the hustle and bustle of feverishly working people strike him. So at odds with all previous days. There was vigour and precision back in their movements, as they still set up more barricades and blocked muddy streets with furniture and wooden planks and rough blocks of stone, before setting them aflame.

Oh, how Teagan had wanted to kiss the Highever knight a thousand fold, when he came to him with news about half a dozen barrels filled to brim with lamp oil.

They'd found their weapon. Fire to conquer the dark of night.

Bann Teagan arrived at the top of the slope, to the right the mill perched idly on the cliff's edge, overlooking the village and Lake Calenhad below. No creaking and protesting of rotating and chafing wood could be perceived, for the mill stood still, not spinning softly with the evening's gentle breeze.

On a platform, built around the mill, protruding over the cliff's abrupt edge, stood Ser Araris of Highever, still huddled in his dark woollen cloak. Its mangled and dirtied hem, brushed over the wooden panelling of the platform, moving softly with the occasional breeze. His prominent bright mane caught the last rays of sunshine in a magnificent golden radiance. It reminded Teagan a bit of his late nephew, thought his hair had had a bit more of a brownish tint to it. Slung diagonally across his long back was his scabbarded longsword, its pommel flashing in brightness.

Teagan joined the young knight on the platform, and, for a time, stood silently beside him, embracing the sun's last warmth for today. Yet, somehow, at the prospect of the sun's setting, Teagan did feel tentative hopefulness instead of dread and almost paralysing fear.

All because of the man next to him.

'Thank you.' Teagan tried to put his emotions into words, yet felt that he failed miserably at it. Feverishly he search for something more to say, though the words eluded him.

Serene, Ser Araris' bright gaze wandered, fixating him. 'My lord?'

'You gave the people back their hope. And I cannot thank you enough for that.' Teagan had to swallow, trying to banish an itching tightness from his throat. 'Even restored mine.'

Ser Araris steered his gaze back down to the village. The young Highever knight shook his head, whilst a blank and far-away look clouded his eyes.

'No, bann, in that you are wrong.'

Teagan frowned at the man, lines forming between his eyebrows. 'How so?'

'The people reclaimed hope on their own volition. I simply gave the means to, uh, relight it.'

Ser Araris paused in his speech, seemingly registering for the first time that he had actually spoken. He glanced towards the dark violet sky and exhaled a long breath.

'Everyone has to find hope and prospect for themselves, Bann Teagan.'

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I'd tremendously appreciate it if you took a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to. Furthermore it'll keep me going, content and happy._


	6. Chains of Civilisation

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so. _

_Please forgive me if you find any mistakes, I haven't had the time to read over this chapter as much as I'd hoped too. Furthermore excuse me for uploading this chapter only now, I'd planned to upload it two days ago, yet with work and upcoming exams time is currently sparse for me. _

_Nonetheless, please enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter VI**

**Chains of Civilisation**

**.**

**.**

_The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace._

Over the course of the last few days and weeks her faith in her liege lord and her kingdom may have wavered, but it never truly faltered, never broke. There was never a single moment where her heart couldn't bear what had to be done at Ostagar and crumbled under her responsibilities. Ser Cauthrien remain steadfast, at all times. She had to, for without loyalty, what was there left in this world of disloyalty and cruel backstabbing.

And her just reward seemed to have been delivered by the Maker himself. It reassured her in her faith.

Today, her heart pounded proud with loyalty and love for both Ferelden and Teyrn Loghain. For he had bestowed upon her an honour beyond measure – a quite unexpected one, too. Never in her life had she dared to even dream about this. Her, a mere common woman, who not entirely too long ago, looked forward to a simple life of farming. Though now, it seemed a lifetime ago. Longer, even.

She could still feel the ceremonial sword's light blade's touch as it rested on her shoulder as the inaugurating words had been spoken for all to hear. Denerim's Chantry filled to brim with people from all over the city, visiting the liturgy for prayer and consonance.

Ser Cauthrien had been presented with the signature coat of arms, embroidered onto a pristine white cloak. As Ser Cauthrien kneeled, a chantry sister had attached it onto her armour pauldrons with a clink of iron rings.

From this day forth, until the end of her days she would serve Ferelden and its rulers with absolute loyalty and complete devotion. She would protect their lives, even at the cost of her own. Her loyalty wouldn't waver in the slightest, the duty bestowed upon her carried out to the absolute and without question or hesitation. Married to the kingdom she loved, only death could part her, and she would fight its ravaging breath with every fibre of her being.

Thus it means to be the King's Blade. Ferelden's finest man or woman possessing an inborn martial skill, unparalleled and fit for tales of legends going round the fires. In that regard she surely had earned that title. Even though her keenness it tactics and matters of military might be a tad underdeveloped. There'd only been two who could've ever claimed to be her better with either. One recently lost his life at Ostagar, the honourable Ser Elric Maraigne and a kind of mentor to her. The knight had done his duty and proudly gave his life for King Cailan. The other had long ago vanished, victim to only himself.

Yet, her heart ached at the thought of the elderly knight – and fatherly figure too, to her. She would make Ser Maraigne gasp, overwhelmed by the feeling of proudness for her.

With her undeniable and implicit loyalty.

With her unwavering and fierce courage.

With her peerless and sublime aptitude as a swordswoman of Ferelden.

With all her heart she would make him proud of her deeds.

Even with him standing guard at the Maker's city's gates, separated from her side in an entirely alien dimension of existence. Yet, not even the Fade would stop her of the task she'd set upon herself. His heart would burst with proudness at her deeds.

She had faith, unshaken by the surrounding and impenetrable darkness.

Previously, Ser Cauthrien had though herself blind, for with all the dark and evil surrounding her these days she hadn't seen clearly. Hadn't understood.

Yet, now, she finally did.

Not seeing was a gift of those who truly saw.

Her gaze penetrated the darkness of deceit and madness and greed and hatred and anger and disloyalty, her vision clear she beheld the oneiric image that was true peace.

Her _destination_.

Reached with clear vision and steadfast loyalty.

Her march began.

**.**

**.**

His fist descended like that of an angered god. And the world trembled and shook, cowering in fear of his wrath. Vials filled with tint and wax, goblets and carafes filled with wine and water tumbled and fell, shattered. The teyrn's table descended into chaotic anarchy.

The King's Blade watched. Cauthrien stood behind her liege lord, in one corner of the room, calmed by the surrounding gloom. The hearth's fire, flickering, could not reach her where she stood guard. Sword loosened in its scabbard, ready to spring free at a moment's notice, should the dire need arise.

Her eyes never left the weasely man opposite the table.

Loghain's hands balled into fists, he roared, 'Why must I deal with such incompetence?'

More good men of Ferelden had lost their lives. Thus was the brutal truth of civil war. Every day it claimed more, a tidal wave, unstoppable. Until they'd mass in the hundreds, the thousands and hundreds of thousands. All dead, for Ferelden's sake. Brothers and sisters, fellow men now spilled their blood. And they did so with a fervour, burning bright in its zeal. It was only to be expected for many to lay down their lives. A logical conclusion, and her lord knew.

Why, then, incompetence, one might ask, rhetorically? Teyrn Loghain's troops were well trained and fresh, not battered and bled dry by Ostagar. His officers were schooled in many devious parts and acts of warfare. Yet, they still suffered defeat after defeat against the mottled bands of worn soldiery rising up in rebellion. All over the Bannorn, separated. Which deserved a thankful prayer to the Maker. Most could be put down quickly enough. A brutal show of hacking and slashing swords with overwhelming force, most traitors scattered, noose bleeding heavily.

Yet, particularly Arl Bryland and Bann Alfstanna proved to be a most vicious thorn in Ferelden's flank. The rest not overly much.

Where the Bannorn and all its countless lords to stand united, they'd pose a threat to even the combined forces of both of Ferelden's teyrinrs.

Andraste's blessed touch, then, to thank for in equal measures, that such an amalgamation was unheard of, and, thus, nigh improbable to ever happen.

For that the Bannorn's nobility despised each other too much. And loved their bickering amongst themselves equally.

The weasely man, which Ser Cauthrien not once took her eyes off, for she did not trust Highever's new teyrn, opened his mouth in answer to the king-regent's rhetorical question. He shouldn't have.

Savagely, Loghain's hand scythed through air, cutting of Teyrn Howe's speech in its very tracks.

Ser Cauthrien did not trust the man. She'd never took much interest in politics. Not her forte, after all. And she could care less for all the rumours spewing around taverns and inns and wherever else throngs of people amassed, it spread like a cancerous disease. Not once had she put much on whispers and rumours and half-truths. No need to start now. Yet, neither was the cause for her mistrust of the man.

It had taken only one searching look. His eyes had given her all she needed to know. Teyrn Howe hid nothing.

When he first strode into Teyrn Loghain's chambers. His features hawkish and lit up in false humility. His crooked nose and the flat and lifeless eyes peering over them, always searching for prey. Ever more prey. She locked gazes with a murderer's eyes that day, this much had been clear.

Probably even more to her liege lord.

Rendon Howe was a man utterly consumed by the sharp knife that was greed, only sheathed in his flaring ambition. It consumed his insides like a raging fire, devouring everything that would block its path. And what a ruthless and arbitrary path it was. It cared not for what lay ahead, it cared only about hindrances and obstacles, nuisances one and all to its all-consuming hatred.

The fire would stop at nothing until it had burned the world. Thus, Teyrn Howe had long ago sealed his own fate. A fate of devouring fire, swallowing him whole when the time arrived, leaving nothing but ash of the man. And at the rate with which it burned and cackled and flickered and howled, his ambitions would soon be met by cold iron. Taking away fire's life with one gentle slash across his throat. Cauthrien saw as much, clear, without doubts.

Yet, the man was a most useful tool. His legions of armed forces were larger than Loghain's, if one counted the various mercenary companies he had hired with his newly acquired wealth. Spoils of war and slaughter, given freely by traitors and their heaps of gold. A most noble family, the Couslands, after their rightful sentence they sought penance in death by helping Ferelden. A most honourable legacy, Cauthrien surmised, not that they'd ever be thanked for that. Traitors, after all, never were. The dead gave Ferelden an army. And, in serving Ferelden through Loghain's guiding hands, Rendon Howe could, too, repent what little was left of his blackened patch of a soul. In the end, the Maker would judge. As he did with all.

'I've had enough of this charade,' the king-regent turned his head towards her. She stepped from the shadows, ready to serve. 'King's Blade, you will take three thousand armed men and quench this rebellion. Put the Bannorn to the torches if you have to. Leave none of these Orlesian sympathisers alive.'

'Your will, my hands, king-regent.' Cauthrien bowed and stepped back into the shadows.

Rendon Howe perked up, appearing meek and humble, even though he wasn't fooling anyone. Probably not even himself. His continuous play proved to be most tiring.

'An offer of help, if you permit, my lord,' he said, eyes cast down.

Loghain sat back down into his high-backed armchair, gesturing for the man to offer his proposal of help.

'I've recently, uh, acquired the services of a renowned mercenary company. It is said they're very apt at snuffing out traitors without remorse, for they despise treachery.'

At Teyrn Howe's sign, the two guards on the room's opposite ends opened the double door. Admitting an inhumanly tall woman, a beast. She walked with an ease and a predatory gait that belied her stature.

Her skin wore the sickly colour of dark ash. Outdone by the silvery flow of her long, braided hair. It sprouted between two delicate horns appearing out of her forehead like gnarled roots reaching back over her head. Golden hued metal spikes and other peculiar shapes pierced her straight nose's nostrils and her dagger-like ears and her full bottom lip. Two strips of red dyed cloth, crossing over her sternum, covered up her ample breasts. Whilst beneath, her slim and lean belly lay bare. From the waist down the female qunari was covered in tightly trimmed and form hugging leather leggings, darker than her skin, with calf-high riding boots to match. Sheathed at both hips were two fragile looking scimitars, their one-edged, thin blades straight. Too, affixed on the belt holding both scabbards, was a plain half-mask. White porcelain, undecorated, only nine blood-red marks covered the mask. If donned it would cover the upper half of her face, only two slits where her eyes would be. Other than that it possessed no features.

Muscled arms crossed over her chest, she stood defiant in the presence of strangers.

Teyrn Howe spoke up, a sneer on his face, 'Couldn't you find a more savage attire, creature?'

The qunari woman peered at him, a bland look covering her face. She shrugged.

'You paid for my services, nothing more, human.'

Loghain snorted a bitter laugh, silencing any forthcoming retort from Howe. I like this one, it said.

'Very well,' said Loghain, after looking her over with critical eyes, 'how shall we address you?'

'Isala'k will suffice.'

'Fine. Isala'k, your company shall march with the King's Blade. Be ready to march, come the next dawn.'

**.**

**.**

Oh, the irony. They'd never understand, with their clouded minds and whatnot. Pah, and how she despised traitors. But, oh the sweet irony, it tasted bitter on her tongue.

They called her savage. A beast to be tamed. And they thought they'd did just that. What a pitiful delusion. Well, her it suited. Just fine, it did.

Let all those humans with their mounds of gold and their crowns, perched atop their heads by themselves and no one else, think whatever they wanted to. With all their useless inventions and rights and rules.

Let them float in blissful ignorance. They think gold and coin can buy them everything. Even her and her company of outcasts.

Let them keep their beliefs. However erroneous. Who was she to care?

Humans. A civilised people. Pah, even the thought made her snort in contempt. Humans, with all their self-proclaimed rights, which suited only them and no one else. Their bended sense of justice. Wherever she looked there was no justice to her eyes. Not in the cities, nor in the lands beyond. Not even in these people's minds did she perceive a notion of justice.

The rich and wealthy ruled over the poor peasantry, always a tyrannical sceptre ready to swing down with bone crushing force should their will not be met to the latter.

The peasants died of sickness and violence everywhere, and even their own just looked on. As if there didn't lie a mauled carcass in the streets, the stray dogs already feeding in delight.

And the lords and ladies of this civilised world were just that. Stray dogs, believing their wealth to be a privilege to rule and dictate. They fed on the hapless without second thought. After all, there were endless rows of poor people and elven servants to be found. All ready to cower beneath wealth's heel.

For wealth was power to these people.

Wealth brought innovations and advance, a step into the future. Bright with new marvels to be discovered. New places to be found. Ancient mysteries to be unravelled. Truths laid bare. All when it suited them.

A civilised world. What else would it be for if not for all people to work together, forming a just society? The rulers wielding land and wealth like a deadly weapon, pointing it at their target, ready to pierce flesh and bone, whilst everyone else drove the weapon deep down, slicing the heart open. In vain hoping to one day ascend into the ranks of these illustrious and civilised people, able to give directions of his or her own.

Thus they marched together, endless rows, stumbling on. Mindless and witless, in hatred and contempt and fear they stumbled on and ever on. They were chained, and proudly called it freedom.

With all their golden and silver coins these privileged thought it their right to believe their voice to be truth, absolute. Yet, what they forgot was a simple truth. A meagre thought, so shattering in its simplicity.

Without the poor, the peasants, the slaves, none of this would've ever been achieved. Gold did achieve nothing of this. Only those who followed. They achieved, paved the way.

Alas, they, too, forgot that simple truth.

And so they followed. The rivers of gold, raking trough civilisation like poisonous serpents.

They followed to where awaited rights that would diminish their self, to where rules had to be followed that would rob them of their rights and chain them to debt and servitude and slavery. What a just and civilised world.

What, then, was left that could define civilisation, oh grand civilisation? Nothing but useless inventions. For that was all gold could buy, all it ever would. Inventions, things no one truly needed. Only greed and envy proclaimed these things are things to be had.

Utterly useless, but, to minds twisted by insanity and madness, they meant status.

So, she came to her conclusion, civilisation was, then, there at the very end of the golden serpent the mother of uselessness. For nothing else was born out of this grand concept that human scholars and rulers waved, every day anew, like an ornate banner tugged by winds on a field of death and dying and bloodshed. A thing she knew well, by trade.

They though civilisation their superiority over her and her people, the savage beasts. They were woefully wrong.

If the arishok had wanted, then Thedas would've been conquered by now, breaking the pathetic bonds of civilisation. Yet, he did not. And every qunari understood his reasons. They knew from the day they were born.

He could've sent the Isala'k, and no walled of city, no however well trained army, no civilisation could've stood between the qunari and victory.

Yet, at the same time, it would've been their defeat. For victory against mankind, the arishok would've to sacrifice his own people and much more. She hadn't always understood that, alas.

But now, Farah'an, saw clear enough. She had fought and bled with her brothers and sisters. Without the Isala'k, the qunari would fall. Another simple truth. And for that simple truth every one of them was granted a name. Which, to the qunari meant honour beyond measure.

Let them think what they want, in their ignorance. Let them think to be the very centre of the world. The constant subject of talk among all their gods.

Let them think they were the qunari's true enemy.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I'd tremendously appreciate it if you took a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to. Furthermore it'll keep me going, content and happy._


	7. Dread of Night

_Story note:_

_I want to thank all of you who are reading, following, favouring and reviewing my story. Your support keeps me going._

_In respone's to one guest's review: I do not intend for this story to heavily feature romance. I'm not even sure if there'll be any, at all. Because I simply think that writing romance isn't my thing and that I'm terrible at it. But I haven't settled on anything, really. Might be or not. What I can say for sure is this: do not expect to read steamy or arousing scenes in this story of mine. It might be that you'll read about implications of romance (like with Isabela), but nothing more. So, alas, if you came here in search of such a thing, and such a thing only, then it'd be best to turn around now. Thank you for understanding._

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so._

_There you have it: the battle at Redcliffe Village. AU version. Please be aware that this chapter will contain graphic violence. And will not shy away from it. If you're averse to such a thing, click that red little button up there to the right. In the corner, the one with the X. But this story is rated M, so something along these lines is to be expected from time to time anyway._

_Please, enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter VII**

**Dread of Night**

**.**

**.**

Night had settled.

The full, silvery moon rode hard the wheel of time. Galloping by glittering stars, alas, not hard enough. Light's mere reflection on a huge piece of barren rock wouldn't suffice. No it wouldn't, only a star's direct light, flaring and bright and full of life, gazing down with an intense stare could hope to prevail against the dark of night. It could never hope to be victorious, but it would prevail.

None of both could ever hope to overthrow the other, by nature's own necessity. In the absence of light there was dark, but without light the very concept of darkness wouldn't exist. In turn, there could be no light without the notion of dark. And wherever the two warred, their struggle ceaseless, mother dark and father light begat their child, shadow.

What a sad triumvirate, ever fighting for dominance, yet also wholly dependent on each other.

Nonetheless, Araris currently truly felt the craving need of all those people around him, restless and frightened. It tasted bitter on his tongue. They reeked of unease and fear and, somewhere swirling between these two layers, of impending cowardice.

They craved for day. All of them. Even those who stood looking straight ahead in defiance, ready to spit into night's face. Apathetic of the consequences.

But the last living member of the Cousland bloodline couldn't really blame them. He only welcomed dark's chilly cajolery because it could grant him what he sought, what he wished for, what he truly _craved_ for.

A sickly green mist rose in front of Castle Redcliffe's massive gate, now no longer barred, whereas it'd been at day. _So there must exist some semblance of intelligence inside. Enough to open doors. Not necessarily human, though._

It wreathed and contorted itself spasmodically across the long, ancient bridge. Soon, the nauseating stench reached them, even far away as they were by the silent wind mill, overlooking the gloomy village below. The reek of desiccated and decaying flesh, of festering and burnt wounds made Araris' nostrils flare in disgust.

The dwarven mercenary nonchalantly leaning onto his double-edge battle axe, lured to this burgeoning battle only by the prospect of Teagan's pouch and a share of the gold coins clinking inside, turned sideways and spat phlegm on the ground. Mucous bits clung to his braided beard.

'Sodding Stone,' he proclaimed for all to hear, 'this smells worse than my Ancestors' hoary balls! Which is sayin' something.'

His two human companions, the upper half of their grim faces painted with ash, snorted at that, mad grins on their faces. Each of them cradled a heavy crossbow with affection. Whilst the two formations of Redcliffe knights and militiamen shuffling sullenly rang in the oppressing silence afterwards.

Nothing moved, nothing sounded. No crickets chirped, no birds flapped through the air, not even a gentle breeze caressed the tufts of meagre grass around them. Even nature held its breath at the approaching undead. And approach they did.

Araris took the moment and faced inwards, listening to his heart beating. Still steady, controlled, not frantic. Soon to change, he was sure of that much, if nothing else.

He'd left his travelling cloak behind in the Chantry, it would only be a hindrance in the imminent battle. The local blacksmith had been so kind as to outfit him with a more appropriate attire. A hardened leather cuirass tightly hugged his torso, padded with framed pieces of overlapping chainmail protecting his shoulders. Lean forearms protected by studded leather gauntlets, of which he once again checked the fastening straps. Araris tugged at the leather belt, holding his sheathed longsword, slung across his back, in place. The sword loosened, ready to spring into his eager hands at an eye blink's notice.

In front of them all waited sporadic rows of tapered spears of thick wood, facing towards the gentle slope leading to the bridge. A hastily set up barricade, covered in sticky and foul smelling lamp oil. The flame to be lit in the darkest of moments.

The sickly green mist appeared at the upper edge of the slope, foreboding and ominous, yet not the dreaded shuffling corpses. Not yet, anyway. Even fouler than before smelled the very air, reeking of death. All life and prosperity absent in its ghostly presence.

This night, Araris knew, would come to be a night of frightening loneliness. None of the here gathered would find comfort or shelter in camaraderie. He hadn't told this anyone.

The Redcliff knights, Ser Stanley among them with shield and sword in hand, guarded by their adamant belief, clung to the Maker's mercy and divine protection. He would not stand with them this night. No god would. Not the Maker, nor his ascendant bride, Andraste, at his side. They might welcome the fallen of faith with arms spread in warm embrace, there at the very steps of their blackened city. But they would not split the sky in lightening and thunder to descend among mere mortals. The dwarven Stone and all its ancestors held no power here, above on the surface, with the yawning sky soaring high over their heads, ready to swallow them. Even if they were inclined to do so, the Elder pantheon, the elven gods and goddesses had left this mortal realm long ago in resignation. War and conflict in all its misery and strife should stay with mortals for all eternity. Who were they to care? The Old Gods and Goddesses, befouled and corrupt themselves, their souls sickened by irredeemable blackness would only spur what would soon happen here. And the Forgotten Ones, well, they were forgotten for a reason, after all.

No, they stood alone. Simple mortal souls facing their impending doom. No one else.

Military doctrine, ingrained in each and every one of these knights present – and probably in Dwyn, the veteran dwarven mercenary, too - would avail them naught when the droves of corpses, as Teagan had described them, would finally arrive.

Wills would break and formations would scatter. All pretence of order left to rot, somewhere forgotten.

A night of loneliness.

_Do not fall, this night. _Such had been Ser Stanley's last advice for his men.

That was exactly what Araris searched for this night, to welcome it with open arms. _A last chilly embrace, chaining my fate._

And he would ultimately find it, for there, around the corner and down the slope now shuffled and huddled and shambled on the endless hordes of dead. In eerie silence.

_It is begun._

**.**

**.**

Rotting and mouths ridden with blackened tooth agape, silent screams on their peeling lips the creatures' descent quickened to a full out run. Many stumbled over broken and gnarled and malformed legs and fell. Though that didn't stop the horde's overall advance. Without mercy, for they no longer possessed even a notion of what the word meant, the corpses trampled down their own.

The charging undead did not stop for something as meagre as a barricade. They charged the tapered wooden spears, too. Many simply skewered and impaled themselves on them, some slumping down in dismayed defeat, unable to move, they yapped and clawed on nonetheless. Those who fortuitously chose a path that led through, in between tapered stakes, attempted to close the distance of a few paces that stood between them and the living.

The first row, consisting of lightly armoured militiamen, raised their elm longbows, arrows already notched. Hastily, they scrambled around, drawing back their bows' strings, immediately letting go of them. Were the risen dead any more than a few paces away, most shots surely would have been amiss. The militiamen forgot to aim in their abject terror and fear of death.

From behind and above his position, Araris heard as further bowstrings were loosened and the slapping thwacking sound of two heavy crossbows.

Serendipitously, the creatures were already in such close proximity to the poor archers, that accuracy and precision were wholly superfluous.

The first volley of nearly two dozen arrows and quarrels felled the two front rows of undead, their charge briefly halting in its forward surging momentum. All that the wavering row of militiamen managed was another volley of shots, then they surged to the sides, looks of utter horror on their faces and wailing screams loosened on their lips to give voice to their horror.

For snarling in annoyance, the dead, spiked with arrows, rose anew.

A few hapless militiamen weren't fast enough and the undead found their first victims. They were torn apart, bit by gory bit. Unbelievably quick, too. Cloth was torn, flesh rendered apart and stripped from bone, organs laid bare like a delicious feast. They were nothing if not effective, these undead.

Not content with the few famers and fishers they'd managed to catch, the horrid creatures lapped forward like a cool wave rising to attack the dark shore. Yet the shore proved to be a wall consisting of tempered steel and hardened soldiery. The two squads of Redcliffe knights arrayed in wedge formations, shields closed, bit from both sides into the undead like a rabid beast. And once the canines were dug in deep, they didn't let go. In a few heartbeats the two squads had slain dozens of the undead creatures. Swords arched up and fell repeatedly. Slicing off arms and heads, crushing bone underneath and severing desiccated tendons and shrivelled muscle.

Expertly, the two squads had merged and closed rank, presenting a solid shield wall. All the same, a few of the risen dead had managed to break through before the knights had closed their formation. They scrambled towards Araris and the remaining militiamen.

Yet to unsheathe his longsword, Araris tensed in anticipation, waiting for the appropriate moment. A foolish notion, these were no expert swordsmen, but it proved thrilling. A cold smile marred his blue-blooded features. Though, as it quickly turned out, his elation at the prospect of bloodshed was premature.

The dwarven mercenary Dwyn bellowed a maniacal outcry and launched himself into the heat of combat. His double edged battle-axe described a perfect arc over his head. With one vicious slash he scythed open one creature's chest, exposing shrivelled and foul organs and brown and brittle bone underneath. Further two, who chose the unfortunate moment to stand in the heavy weapon's path, were simply sliced in two, vertebrae snapping like twigs. As another undead tried to rip out the dwarf's throat, Dwyn hammered the creature's head aside with the long stock of his weapon. The sudden impact twisted its head so far, the neck broke with a satisfying crunch and the creature slumped down.

At the front, the knights were hard pressed by the continuous onslaught the undead delivered. Slowing wounds and bloody gnashes slowly opened up and covered them all. They would not hold for much longer. A bit of relief arrived by another volley of arrows and quarrels.

The shield wall retreated step by step. Bruises already forming on every one of them, some hobbled back with broken bones. Unrelenting wave after wave clashed with them, scratching and clawing and tearing. Thankfully, so few of the creatures were actually armed with weapons. Though a hammer or a pitchfork could be as equally deadly, as one of the knights just experienced. His iron helmet brutally bashed in on one side, the remains of his face flowed and spurt out beneath the helm's rim as he fell.

Meanwhile, Dwyn had routed the last remaining corpses behind the shield wall, now corpses in truth, he spit on them. Half a dozen militiamen had tried to aid him in his fight, and had paid dearly for that foolishness. Their cooling bodies now covered the stained ground. The rest of them had fled down into the village. Only the two mercenary crossbowmen, Dwyn's associates remained, position above on the wind mill's balcony. They did their best to spick the droves of undead with heavy quarrels, still rushing down the slope.

A though hit Araris' mind, like a fist to the chest.

_Horseshit and virginpiss! The militiamen, they fled._

Araris turned round and ran towards the wind mill. He picked up a discarded elm longbow from the ground. Feverishly, his eyes darted around, searching. Then he found one. A single arrow, probably slid down between sweaty and trembling fingers.

The knights' formation wavered, nearly a dozen paces had they retreated from the stake barricades by now.

Araris tore out a piece of woollen cloth from a nearby human corpse's garments and wrapped it round the arrow's shaft, directly beneath the head. With a quick yank he affixed it in a permanent knot.

Another knight fell, his throat flayed and mangled, the creature who had taken him went down with him, feeding vigorously.

Arrow already notched, Araris held the tip over a torch, clinging to the mill's cylindrical edifice. He waited until the piece of cloth was on fire.

Inhaling deep into the twin caverns of his lungs, he drew the bow string back to his cheek. Aimed up. And released.

The burning arrow flew through the cool night's air like a flickering miniature sun.

It hit the oil-drenched ground around the battered barricades.

The miniature sun extended.

And the world was alight with raging fire. Expunging the cool of night in a single instance. Barrels filled to brim with lamp-oil suddenly exploded. The shockwave send the undead creatures scattering in every direction, some were flung against the low ravine's jagged stone enclosing the downwards leading slope. Turned into bony and fleshy pulp. Countless of them were vaporised to smouldering ashes in a mere heartbeat.

The air smelt, pungent, of burning flesh.

The remaining knights, barely on their feet, raised their shields to ward of the sudden heat. Still they were driven to their knees, armour creaking, skin blistering.

The raging fire towered twice as high as a grown man, a barrier conjured by natural forces, oppressive and unrelenting was its heat.

But the dead do not fear fire.

The residual droves of vile creatures plunged through the wall of fire and emerged. Skin blistered, bubbling and peeling off, if eyeballs remained they now burst in a splash of foul fluids, their clothes and flesh aflame they continued their advance.

Thus, too, broke the knights' discipline. As predicted there'd be no sanctuary in camaraderie this night. The Redcliffe knights now stood alone, each swarmed by dozens of burning creatures.

With an impressive litany of profanity and curses and threats, Ser Stanley managed to rally the weary half dozen knights that were still alive around him.

Dwyn, sent flying by the concussive wave from the explosion, pulled himself up. He looked over at Araris, and smiled an insane smile.

Araris answered in kind.

The undead rushed towards the tall human and the dwarf. Swallowing the single wedge formation of knights during the process.

Araris' heart quickened in anticipation at the dawning violence. He blinked. As he reopened his eyes, his longsword had already appeared in his hands, flickering left and right. Faces split and painted him in bodily fluids. Chests ripped open from sword slashes, unveiling the intimacy of inner workings of dead bodies. Bellies were ravaged, torn open as if by a massive beast's claw, innards and bile spilling forth.

The dwarven mercenary fought equally as mad at Araris' side. He gifted the undead nothing, other than a permanent end of their miserable condition.

With a quick upwards slash, Araris scythed open one of them from crotch to chin. Another risen dead took its peer's place, eagerly to meet finality at his gory blade. Araris fought on.

Through the maze of death and dying bodies and the fine mist of blood clouding the air, appeared the knights. Three still stood, on wobbly feet, but upright nonetheless.

Ser Stanley stabbed one of the creatures making a try for Araris' life. The middle-aged knight looked deathly pale. He had lost his helmet and a brutal wound covered the entirety of his pate. It looked deep. Blood spurted forth, covering his features, even as he screamed over the rattle of iron.

'We cannot hold!'

_I know._

Araris blade danced with a life of its own, slaying two undead. Taking of them their means to walk. So they crawled, stumps leaking behind them. And Araris took from them their heads.

'We must fall back!' The knight grasped his arm in a hard grip, rattling Araris, as if to wake him from a nightmarish illusion.

What Araris saw in the Redcliffe knight's eyes nearly broke his heart. So much compassion.

For him.

It brought him out of his adrenaline rush and dulled his frenzied bloodlust. Slowly he felt the flaring sting of dozens of negligible wounds, scratches from overly long fingernails drawing fissures across his legs and arms as much as his neck and face.

'Fall back, Araris. Bring them to safety. Defend them!'

Weakly, Araris Cousland managed a nod. More he could not. His hammering heart would not allow it to deny Ser Stanley this . . . mercy.

One last gaze back over the field of slaughter showed him Dwyn fighting side to side with the last Redcliffe knights. Ser Stanley joined them.

Araris turned round and hurried down the slope towards the village.

_A night of loneliness. _

**.**

**.**

A high-pitched scream pierced the Chantry building's courtyard.

'Milord, they're comin' from the lake!'

At the sudden exclamation, Teagan's head snapped towards the shore, cast in gloom. And true to the man's words, in between the decrepit and abandoned buildings of the village, figures rose from the lake's dark surface. Like demons, ghastly. _They must've crossed the lake's bottom._ _Again._

Drenched, leaking water from empty eye sockets and gaping mouths and vicious wounds, they shuffled heavily towards the barricades of stone and wood blocking the numerous entrances into the courtyard.

'Ready yourselves!'

Militiamen archers sent volley after volley of arrows over the barricades. Few of them hit anything at all, even fewer managed to actually fell one of the risen corpses. As long as the barricades held fast that would be no matter. They had enough arrows.

Teagan just hoped that the knights could hold the slope at the wind mill. Otherwise the entire bulk of the undead would push down on them with crushing force.

He saw a figure rushing down the slope and into the courtyard. His lean frame and conspicuous hair told Teagan immediately who approached. Though when Ser Araris of Highever stepped into the blazing bonfire's circle of light, Teagan gasped in shock. Eyes widened, every militiamen in the vicinity experienced likewise reactions.

The young knight was spattered with blood and bile and other inhuman fluids covering all his features. Bits of gore clung to his hair. His armour hung in ragged and mauled tatters, mail broken and torn. Slices and tears covered his flesh, steadily seeping blood.

Yet, he still stood straight and approached with steady steps. He halted in front of Teagan, speaking in hushed tones, 'Get them inside, my lord.'

Teagan frowned, whilst a feeling of chill dread overcame him. 'What? Why?'

Ser Araris pressed, 'Get them inside.'

'What has happened? Tell me!'

The young knight grasped Teagan and shoved him aside, away from the Chantry building's broad double doors. With a push he opened them.

Then he turned round and bellowed, loud for all to hear, 'Get inside, now!'

The militiamen, farmers and fishers one and all, rushed inside like kicked dogs. Not knowing what they had done wrong.

Ser Araris stepped aside to let the throng of frightened people pass.

'By now they'll have broken through. We could not hold them at the mill. There were too many. That's what's happened, Bann Teagan. Now, get inside, barricade the doors with everything you can find and pray to the Maker for the dawn to arrive quickly.'

'Without a proper defence they'll tear these doors down in no time, we must get the men-'

'No, bann. These are no soldiers, sending them out here will gain you nothing, not even time. They're even poorer archers. But, nonetheless, barricade yourself and position archers at every window and every balcony. Tell them not to stop shooting until the sun has risen. Or they'll die.'

Roughly, the young knight shoved him into the Chantry building. Ser Araris turned round, longsword in hand, he waited at the top of the few stairs leading up to the double door. Realisation dawning, Teagan shook his head in denial. An icy grip clenching down hard on his chest, relentless. He asked his question, though he already knew he wouldn't like the answer.

'What will you do?'

'Barricade the doors, Bann Teagan,' commanded he over his shoulder.

**.**

**.**

He inhaled deep the salty air. The reek of burning wood filled his nose. The hacking and clawing away on barricades of inhuman creatures filled his ears. From the left, above on the slope the rush of water's sudden fall and the tremble of countless feet rushing down sounded foreboding.

Behind him the door shut. With finality. The scraping of tables and shelves could be heard, thumping against the double doors.

He readjusted his grip, clutching his longsword with sweaty and bloody fingers.

Araris breathed deep. Eyes closed he cherished this last moment of stillness. His and his alone in this night of dread.

Ready, he returned to the world and faced his enemy.

One last time.

_Many a man breaks, Araris, when faced with impending doom. They're afraid, paralysed by the surrounding horrors. All so alien and unknown. Yet, for all that, it is a choice. So choose!_

Her words ringed true, now more than ever, in his memories.

Finally, he had his answer.

His stance widened.

.

.

Teagan watched through a slit in the barricaded window. Those of the frightened, crowding the Chantry building's insides, who still possessed some kind of morbid curiosity huddled around him, peering out into the night. All eyes on the lone, fair figure.

Yet, to all who witnessed that moment when Ser Araris made his first move, undead creatures lapping up all around him like a rushing wave, was too fast to register. His longsword guided by a single hand as if it weighed nothing flashed and flickered from enemy to enemy creature. It whistled a mournful song of death as it cut through the air. Even his body was a blur, too fast to track. The frenzied flurry of his movements did not abate. Ser Araris did not break his contact with the pressing droves of risen corpses. It went on and on, impossibly on. Two tidal forces, neither willing to yield. Neither willing to grant the other a step. Forward or backward.

As they arrived and lapped up the small staircase, they fell back down. Throats slashed open. Faces carved deep, heads sent flying into the courtyard. Grasping claws and arms severed. Bones shattered, tiny shards splintering off. A mist of fluids arose, covering everything, even fouling the air.

_By the Maker. _

Teagan remembered. Of course, now with such brilliant clarity. He remembered a tournament, so many years ago. How could he have forgotten? The young man who, so unexpectedly, triumphed. How, indeed, could he have forgotten? Blindness had dimmed his memory. Blindness and dread. This young man out there, readily preparing to give his life, was no knight. Never had been. No, he was anything but.

_Forgive us all our sins, dear Maker, for we are befouled by sins, beyond count, all of us are thus, your children._

**.**

**.**

Araris felt vivid. One, not with the world, but with the moment.

As much as the undead lapped up like rising water fighting against a ragged cliff of rock they were repelled again, thrown back into the sea. Solid, stubborn, unmoving stood the stone. They moved, unrelenting, though slow to his eyes. Their movement dull and broken and unimaginative.

Araris' gaze turned ouwards, he fixed on nothing. He did not need to. His muscles knew what to do, guided by his reflexes. Body writhing, he voiced no outcries or bellows. Now his sword spoke. And it spoke with grace and beauty, its song like life itself to his ears. To disrupt would be a crime.

Slashes and thrusts and stabs and low-edged ripostes and deft sidesteps filled the moment.

But as it was with ragged cliffs and hungry, rising waves. Such was it with him.

Time would eat away at anything. Stop at nothing. Until the cliff was reduced to a shore.

Such was it with him. Time his mortal enemy.

The undead creatures closed in on him, ever so slowly. In his mind he perceived the sound of angry waves. Cold and hungry. Ready to do what nature bid them to do. Time was not of the essence. For time was nature's ally.

They closed in, soon near enough to embrace him like countless lovers. Their hot breaths gently caressing his cheek, a blush rising. Araris felt their harsh touch. A brutal tug on his head, a ravaging claw biting his neck and leaving marks, a vicious thrust intend to break.

Araris felt his blood roar in defiance. A bestial temper boiling his blood, ever hotter and stronger with every wound they forced to open. Not the cold and clinical haze he usually felt when stepping out of his body, no this was different. He was still there. Another alien thing entirely.

The beast roared, vengeful, one last time.

The world trembled and nearly cracked open in response.

Before Araris embraced darkness.

Down into the Abyss.

Finality.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I'd tremendously appreciate it if you took a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to. Furthermore it'll keep me going, content and happy._


	8. Everybody wants to rule

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so._

_Small sidenote: I edited chapter 2, adding a small piece from Fergus' POV._

_Big sidenote: So, yeah, um, I'm back. I guess. I am truly sorry for my long time of absence, guys. I'm not dead. There was just a lot of stuff going on lately - mainly work und studying - and I haven't been able to really write anything of note lately. Then after having all the stress finally out of the way my spirit to write and think about how to put my countless ideas into adequate words and sentences was, well, non-existent, I guess. I just wasn't able to write anything, nothing that, in my eyes, had been worthy of use. _

_But, as already mentioned, I'm back. And I'll try to keep up a steady flow of chapters as much as I can. Please forgive me my long time of silence._

_Enjoy this chapter, were councils are held, decisions are made and Farah'an hands out her own personal batch of nicknames._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter VIII **

**Everybody wants to rule**

**.**

**.**

There was no paved road or cobblestone highway leading them through the Bannorn's rolling grasslands since they'd left the dusty South Road from the capital; no road taking them into treachery's arms to exert their rightful sentence. Accordingly, her armed forces marched in loose units behind her. Divided into companies, each one separated from the other far enough to permit the ease of movement, yet near enough to close rank should the dire necessity to do so arise expectedly or unexpectedly. The companies marched in formations of six squads each; arranged as befit their function. Light skirmishers formed the outmost curtain, with heavy infantrymen forming a solid barrier next. Innermost was a core of regular medium infantry.

The massive column that was the supply train forged its own path through the Bannorn. Hundreds of ox-drawn wagons and carts mingled with bawling herds of goats and sheep, countless in number, propelled forward by yapping and barking cattle mabari.

At the massive column's flanks rode units of light lancers and mounted archers, guarding the supply train. Far ahead of the vanguard preceding her armed force of three thousand men rode units of scouts.

Schismatic, the qunari mercenary company, numbering around five hundred, marched a hundred and fifty paces to the south in solemnness. Lumbering, horned beasts the colour of copper and ash, towering nearly half again as tall as grown men. Their long, muscled legs at times carried them at a pace that could keep up with her cavalry's slow canter. And they were by far not running. Even their leader, the one who called herself Isala'k marched afoot among her mercenaries.

Mounted, the King's Blade rode inside the tight column of her armed force, nearly at its head. Besides her rode her three battalion commanders. Accomplished tacticians one and all. Two she had already met countless times, for they had marched with Gwaren's forces to Ostagar. The third, a gaunt man with watery eyes, resembling that of a fish, belonged to the contingent supplied by Teyrn Howe.

The sky was a darkening sea of blue, disrupted by occasional waves of dull grey. Before staring down in relentlessness, the midsummer sun would now soon be sunk behind the horizon, light fading. Night would come as a relief for Cauthrien and her armed force, making their voyage into the grasslands more bearable. Midsummer's gaze was a humid and oppressively heated one, especially hidden beneath all the layers of metal and cloth they wore.

The King's Blade gave sign to make camp for the day. Horns blared along the massive column as it slowly halted and spread out.

**.**

**.**

Farah'an walked along the major pathway, leading her directly to the massive tent in the camp's middle. In the absence of moving air, tapered banners hung limp from tall iron rods. The yellow wyverns embroidered on them looked disgruntled at the prospect of being denied their flight of freedom.

Two unworried and bored looking soldiers guarded the tent's entrance. Their helmeted heads downcast, not even pretending to be on lookout for danger. Farah'an snorted.

A figure approached from the right. And, quite suddenly, the two guards stood ramrod straight, their eyes wandering, watchful, searching for anything amiss. Once the elderly soldier reached the tent's entrance they saluted, but the man did not enter and neither did he return their salute. So they stood, waiting for – what was clearly an officer – to relieve them of their saluting stance. He did not.

Instead he turned towards her, arms crossed behind his back. Intrigued, Farah'an stepped towards the elderly man, rather than rush by him into the tent's embrace as she had planned to.

From a look at his garments and his military gear, one couldn't have distinguished him from a regular soldier of this human army. What few specks of hair remained on the old man were shot through with iron. Contradicting regularity, age had not stolen from him his soldier's physique. His features were etched with lines, but even, nothing overly repulsive nor attractive. If it weren't for the vicious scar that raked itself from his left brow ridge down, eviscerating his left eye into a patch of gnarled scar tissue and further down his cheek. It looked like a massive, jagged crevasse splitting a mountainside.

He nodded, his lone eye peering up towards her. 'Greetings, Isala'k. A few words before we enter?'

'Speak, if you must, human.'

'I've seen your company march. Their speed is quite impressive. Your ability to direct them through unruly territory even more so.'

She arched a brow, looking down at him. 'Is this your flimsy attempt at bedding me?' Farah'an bared her teeth in her most impressive consider-your-answer-very-carefully grin.

'What,' he exclaimed, lone eye bulging open wide, 'no! I was merely complimenting you and your men, nothing more. Grudgingly so, I've never seen mercenaries this well trained.'

'We are of the Qun.' _Not anymore, actually, but who is he to know of such things. A human wouldn't understand anyway._

'Well, uh, yes. Nonetheless, I was meaning to ask: can you keep up such a stressing pace for a prolonged time?'

'You just said so yourself. We are well trained.' She looked over his shoulder. 'Unlike your soldiers.' He winced at that.

The veteran seemed to mull over something for a time, before slowly nodding, seemingly having reached a conclusion that he deemed satisfactory.

'Very well. Let us enter, then.'

The human battalion commander, whose name was unknown to Farah'an - she cared not for such trivialities - turned round and saluted the two guards. Strained by the continuous attempt to hold their rigid salute, they finally sagged in relief as the elderly man marched by them, pushing aside the tent's flaps.

Wry smile on her face, Farah'an followed.

_A man who thinks ahead, human no less. Seldom enough, that. This will be interesting._

**.**

**.**

Once Farah'an and the elderly commander entered the tent and took their places, the meeting immediately commenced. The others already awaiting their arrival.

A small, gaunt man, leaned over a table holding a map of the Bannorn, his voice low, immediately pressed, 'We have to push forward. Rout them as fast as we can.' His fingers traced a path leading deeper into the Bannorn.

The retort came instantly, from a younger commander. 'And how do you propose we do such a thing? Have you withheld information from the King's Blade, Blist? From all of us?'

_Not only pleasing to the eye, this young man._

The gaunt man, Blist, looked indignant. 'Of course not, I'd-'

'Then you do not know where the enemy is camped? Where the rebels' patrols are, their strength?'

Knowing he'd been backed into a corner, Commander Blist grumbled, 'No.'

'Then, what you propose is foolhardy at best. At worst, well . . . suicidal. Charge in without second thought and we could very well be headed into a trap long in its preparation.'

Farah'an nodded to herself.

Blist's fishy eyes bulged out, brow and cheeks reddened. 'You insolent little whelp, how dare you-'

'Enough!' The King's Blade's voice whipped through the tent like a slap. It's thunder echoing like the last remnants of an angry storm. This seemed to be common occurrence, no wonder, then, that the woman was short of temper.

'Commanders, I do not need petty bickering. I need options. Iskara?'

The elderly commander spoke up, indicating towards his younger compatriot. 'Fledg stands correct. An aggressive advance into unruly territory will only draw us out, slowing our advance. Our line of defence will be spread. Our soldiers tired. Not to speak of the possibility of enemy activity . . . well everywhere, King's Blade. We know nothing of their location or movements. Tired soldiers are as good as dead soldiers. We cannot let the rebels decide the ground of battle.'

'Do you even hear yourselves speaking? Trembling in fear of a few traitors. Teyrn Howe's orders have been clear-'

The youngest of the three military commanders, Fledg, cut in, his hand slashing the air, 'Quit barking, Blist. The King's Blade does not care what your teyrn commanded you. This is the king-regent's army. Thus it'll be led by the king-regent's men.'

'Where to? Certainly not to battle, cowering as you all are.'

Farah'an flared her nostrils disdainfully. All the meeting's members stared at her. She only had eyes for the gaunt man, already yearning for a moment she and Fish-Eye would be alone. He reeked of being a commander sending his men into certain death. Fish-Eye averted his gaze as the first, silent for the rest of the meeting.

Out of the corner of her sight, Farah'an spotted the elderly commander nodding at her. She acted like she didn't pick up on it.

Old Geezer continued, laying out the situation, 'Way I see it, our only viable option is to send a small vanguard force. To scout the territory ahead and find the rebels main encampment. A force that can move quickly but can also throw a hard punch should they be locked in a skirmish.'

Old Geezer pointedly looked – quite expectedly in Farah'an's eyes, for she'd have done the same thing – at her.

'Like your mercenary company.'

Fish-Eye puffed up, ready to voice his unneeded opinion, but Farah'an cut him off. With an icy stare, as well as her words.

'I find this acceptable,' the mercenary company leader ground out between her teeth.

The King's Blade repeatedly tapped two fingers on her pursed lips, deep in contemplation. Farah'an like her, at least some of her aspects. The woman knew of her fallibility in military tactics, that much had been obvious from the start. But, wisely enough, she referred to her battalion commanders and heeded their advice carefully. Well, nearly all of their advice. What sputtered out of Fish-Eye's mouth couldn't be counted as advice.

'Very well. Isala'k, you and your men shall push forward into enemy territory. Discern as much as you can. Try to avoid engagement wherever you can. A few mounted messengers will accompany you, to keep me apprised of your situation.'

Farah'an nodded solemnly. 'So it shall be done, King's Blade.'

For her the meeting over, Farah'an left the tent. She had a company of mean bastards to prepare for marching.

The devilish grin overtook her face all on its own. It helped considerably with the task of crossing through the bustling camp.

Human, elf and beast gave her a wide berth.

**.**

**.**

The sun had died a few bells earlier. Like stray sheep clouds passed overhead, radiant in the moon's silvery lances.

Elya stood in the tent's cool gloom. Where the numerous lanterns' illumination couldn't reach her, arms too short to conquer the darkness. Only succeeding in driving them back. Elya found herself to be amiss at these meetings, nothing sensible to contribute. War, after all, couldn't be described as one of her fortes.

Her ears picked up the sounds of shifting mail, soldiery marching by outside, patrolling. In search of company. Rumbling laughter from men huddled together, mingling, trading stories and playing cards. The cackle of many hearths in the night. Men and women bickering about who came first, ladles were stirred in brass pots, screeching, from the nearby impromptu kitchens. Variations of stew bubbling inside above the many fires.

Alien to her, all of this. Even though she'd stayed with the rebels for quite some time now. Yet, they always continued to invite her to these war councils.

War. Another such alien thing.

In the Tower there had been study and exercises and lessons. And, of course, the templars' ever watchful eyes, seeing everything and everyone. Always quick to punish. Intimately abusive to the freedom of choice, life and spirit.

But no war, or anything comparable. Nothing to equip her for the scale of all this. The savagery men seemed to have been bred with, the potential of violence, unleashed upon fellow men. Sure, she'd read about it in countless historical tomes. But historians always painted their tales illustrious, as Elya had quickly found out. The truth was far from it.

Only now, she shamed herself for never managing to gather enough interest to reach expertise in the subtle arts of healing past mediocrity. How many could she have saved from passing to the Maker's side, if it weren't for her laziness? Many, countless even was the definite answer.

Nonetheless, Elya found herself here now and tried to make the best of it. She owed them this much. They had sheltered her after all, an apostate on the run.

News had arrived not even a bell earlier, carried by a returning outrider, his horse nearly run to death. The outrider, too. Arl Bryland had ordered the man to rest for a bit and eat something to gather his strength before delivering his report. A very much dreaded report by all those gathered now. Yet eager all the same, for the outrider should arrive any moment.

Opposite the tent's entry flaps Arl Leonas Bryland stood at the round table occupying the tent's midst. Gathered around were commanders of various units of the amassed rebel forces. Prominent among them Bann Alfstanna Eremon – who had been with Arl Bryland from the very beginning, Ostagar – as well as Bann Loren who's family had been consumed in the fires of Castle Cousland.

Tragedy, all around. Elya wanted to shed tears for them all. And then some for herself, being with them in this horrid situation.

Finally, the outrider entered. Shortly he stopped, looking around, surprised at seeing so many faces regarding him.

'Please, enter.' Arl Bryland beckoned him to step further in. 'We've awaited you, outrider.'

Bann Loren seemed to be of shorter temper than their chosen leader.

'Your report if you will.'

Though, after consideration, the man seemed to be always short tempered. Nothing to be done about that, only time could heal the wound he had received. And Elya wasn't even sure of that. Admittedly, Bann Loren might not have enough time left for that in his old bones.

The outrider nodded hastily and began his retelling.

'Certainly, m'lords. Was scouting the borders of the Bannorn when I see walls of dust. Figured they must been coming from the South Road. So there I went.'

Now his gaze lingered solely on Arl Bryland, colour draining from his face.

'Ser, they're comin'. In force.'

Bann Alfstanna laid a calming hand on the outrider's shoulder. It seemed to work if only a bit. 'Calm yourself,' said she, 'and tell us everything you've seen.'

The outrider breathed deeply, nodding once more, this time visibly more for his own sake.

'Armed forces. Spotted the banner of Amaranthine, Denerim, Gwaren some others I didn't know. But mainly those three. Cavalry, heavy and light infantry. Huge supply train at the back, nearly as long as the army itself.'

'How many?' Arl Bryland cut in.

Bearer of bad news, the outrider looked apologetic, the poor sod. 'Roughly three to four thousand. Not counting the supply train and its guards.'

Elya's heart hammered in her chest, her mind sure it would stop any minute. Gasping all around supported her in her assessment. _Three to four thousand, by the Maker._

Only Arl Bryland kept his iron composure, somehow. He pressed, 'What else?'

_Andraste guide us, there's more?_

'Don't know if this 's true, but I heard rumours. Some say Loghain himself is leading them, others say it's just some common commander. Them last fellows say it's the King's Blade.'

One of the regular commanders, a hard looking man, perked up at that. 'Impossible, I saw the King's Blade fall at Ostagar, with my own eyes.'

At this, the outrider quickly shook his head from side to side. 'The new King's Blade, one of Loghain's commanders. Ser Kathrin or something.'

Bann Alfstanna looked at Arl Bryland, perplexed. 'Cauthrien?'

'That's the name.' The outrider interjected, although the arl's and the bann's attention clearly not on him, their intense focus solely on each other.

'She's no commander. A superb soldier, yes, but no commander,' Arl Bryland added, equally flummoxed. 'Why would Loghain send her?'

Bann Alfstanna massaged her brow and offered, 'He must've sent others with her, ones with more knowledge in the arts of warfare. Should couldn't manage a force this large alone. And Loghain is far from a fool to place this solely on her.'

Arl Bryland nodded sagely. The tent descended into silence, filled with heavy contemplation and plotting.

That was when, the outrider spoke up once more, voice entirely timid, 'There's something else, m'lords.'

Gazes snapped back towards him. Pretty sure her heart had most certainly stopped pumping blood throughout her body, Elya inhaled, desperate.

'Before I left . . . some of them began to march into the Bannorn, while the rest camped. Got a good look. Was them horned beasts, qunari. Don't know how many exactly. Less than seven hundred.'

A miniscule part of Elya – the inquisitive, scholarly one – jumped up and down, thrilled at the eventuality of meeting these mystical foreigners. Notwithstanding that at meeting them, the qunari would doubtlessly try and cut her down. Internally, she pouted at that.

Bann Loren however sneered, spitting on the ground. 'Mercenaries.'

Closing his eyes, Arl Bryland started to massage his temples. Now even he looked beaten, weary. 'This . . . complicates things. Considerably.'

Then he threw a saddened look over his shoulder, directly at Elya. She understood. Trepidation bubbled up inside her, nausea rising. At what would be expected of her, soon probably. Nonetheless, Elya nodded once, albeit hesitantly.

Shortly after, the outrider dismissed, Arl Bryland postponed the meeting. They all direly needed to sleep.

**.**

**.**

Farah'an had had her fill of human bickering for now. It suited her well enough to be separated from these civilised people. Only among her own kind. Not besieged by the constant pungent smell these humans carried with them wherever they went. It soured the air.

What meagre supplies they needed packed up, her mercenary company ready to march. Deep into hostile and unruly territory. Yet, for qunari there was no such thing as unruly territory. No advantage could be won over them by pressing them into a tight ravine or trapping them in a deep basin.

They'd adapt quickly. So quickly that the enemy wouldn't even realise that what they perceived as an advantage over the qunari was nothing but thoughtful wishing. A dire mistake. A blissful illusion. Something, these humans liked to clad themselves in. Blissful illusions, that is.

With a simple gesture her company rose from their packed camp and started at a jog into the rolling hills crowded with heavy trees, thorny undergrowth and jagged boulders, rich, fertile soil underneath.

A presumptuous species, they were, these humans. Thinking they could linger in the shadows and bushes, hiding from her keen eyesight. But Farah'an knew when she was being watched. She didn't need to lay eyes upon those who watched. The precious tingle crawling up and down her spine told her that she was being watched. Either with perverse affection or by an enemy out to take her life.

Farah'an knew when she was being watched by the enemy.

Death lay ahead.

Then enemy thought to have been unspotted. Yet, he wasn't

The tingle whispered to her the truth.

They were in for a rude awakening, dawning in bloodshed. A gruesome battlefield, rife with the dead and flapping carrions only awaiting their feast, hunger gleaming bright in their sharp gaze. They'd shriek in satisfaction.

Soon, she would meet the enemy. Fuck the King's Blade's orders. _No contact with the enemy, pah!_

Head on. Brothers and sisters at her back, bellowing harsh war cries that'd drive terror into men's fickle hearts, they'd charge at them.

Farah'an would remain silent.

For them.

For her.

In death she would lead her outcasts back into the Qun's embrace. Only just, for traitors to their own kind, as they all were.

_Hear us trotting on and on, dear Qun. We're returning to where we belong._

_Your gentle mantle, sheltering us. _

_Your children return home_.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_Please, tell me your opinion, I'd very much like to hear it. Without comments, criticism and encouragement I can't better myself. And I'm sure I can. Especially now after my longer absence, I want to know if you guys think I'm still on the right path or not. So, if you've anything to say, at all, please do so. I'm eager to listen._


	9. Ancient history arise

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so._

_A smaller chapter, that might prove to be a tad bit confusing, but is actually crucial for the overall plot of my story. And not just this story, but the overall plot that'll span into DA2 and beyond. At least, that's my plan._

_ In the next chapter, we'll returned to some established characters and look how life treats them in this alternate Dragon Age universe of mine._

_Enjoy! And, as always, please leave a review and I shall be a very happy author._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter IX **

**Arise ancient history**

**.**

**.**

The ghost wandered aimlessly. Though, did he really wander? He felt no fatigue in his legs. Upon looking down he remembered why. He had no legs. What ghost, after all, has a need for legs? How stupid of him to forget. His memory wasn't what it had once been. He was sure of that, because he couldn't remember anything. It must've been better once, mustn't it?

Like a reflection of the ghost's insides, were laid out his surroundings. As far as his non-existent eyes could see. Desolation. Forgotten and abandoned. A sea of grey ash, dunes here and there like seen in a desert. Just not out of sand. The air, putrid and tasting of ash. Anybody but him would surely choke on the miniscule flakes of ash occupying the breathless air like idle snowflakes. Thankfully the ghost had no need for air. Peeking out of nearly every crevasse, creak, peak, turning, cave and whatnot existing on this desolate ash desert, were brownish and cracked bones, some even brittle. Discoloured by the eternal passage of time. Bones, large and small, huge and towering, some three times as the ghost's non-existent eyes' height level. Like arches and balustrades of a lumbering domed edifice.

A despairing sight, even for someone past death's door.

A question he, surely, must've asked himself countless of times popped into his mind. How did he get here? Past death's door, that is.

It must've been an inconceivably long time ago, for him to forget his own death. Surely, it must've been. A soothing notion, yet also distressing.

Had it been through old age, a gentle slumber taking him ever deeper until darkness had swallowed him? Or a villainous foe's sharp blade eviscerating him on the battlefield, leaving him with unfulfilled hopes and dreams, dying on a bloody battlefield, begging his wife and children for forgiveness? Maybe the knives of politics had stabbed him in the back, hubris, his enemies underestimated in their cunning slyness or their brutal viciousness.

The ghost couldn't remember. But now that he thought about it, it suited him fine. Something to think about, filling the time he'd spend here, wandering aimlessly without legs. Thoughts were, after all, the only thing that could occupy him. Thoughts as food to quench his boredom.

Something caught his non-existent eyes ahead. A glimmering piece of something, the light falling down just in the right angle. Another mystery, that. The light and were it always came from. What with the ever overcast sky and the incomprehensible existence of this sickly illumination painting the ashen seas, yet nowhere visibly piercing the clouds. Alas, though-food for another time. He wasn't hungry right now. Later, maybe. That is, if he didn't forget to think about this intriguing puzzle. Back to more important things. Glimmering and glittering up ahead.

The ghost bent down, his non-existent legs still feeling no fatigue.

A piece of pottery. The first sign of life – or past life – he could remember. Writhing and wrenching, the ghost, overcome by a giggling fit of sarcasm, thrashed in the ashes, though they remained entirely undisturbed. _What he could remember, ha! Good one._

With imaginary fingers, not actually matter in the sphere of existence the ghost wandered, he touched the broken piece of pottery.

Painful flaring.

Mind set alight.

Rivers rushing by his ears.

Slowly everything subsided. And something forgotten rose anew. From ancient times, long past, not even a whisper of it in history tomes. So long it has been. The ashen seas, rolling dunes like waves shifted into actual sand. Ragged stones and dry brushes rose out of the sandy ground. Life returned. Scorpions, spiders, salamanders, stray hounds and desert foxes among others. The ghost's viewpoint rose. No, the sand under him rose, forming a dune. And, with countless others of its kind, a huge basin was born out of long forgotten memory.

Then, from that very basin, cobblestone roads were born. Like a huge cobweb, criss-crossing over the entire flat ground below. Next came shabby huts and houses of all kinds. Made from wood and stone. A few temples, dedicated to gods and goddesses of ancient times, clad in bas-reliefs of beasts and humans alike. Bustling markets and bazaars, canopied by sun-bleached fabric rustling in the desert wind. Lastly, bipedal shapes appeared, wandering the desert town, all with missions of their own. May that be shopping for groceries, journeying to the local well or simply paying a visit to relatives, they all had a personal mission driving them. The newly arisen town bustled with activity. At the far end of the basin a decrepit looking tower stood guard, vigilantly gazing over the ancient town.

The ghost, eager, marched down the sand dune and into the town. He pretended to be just one of the living creatures here, though they all paid him no heed. A ghost after all. He revelled in the experience, joyful just to see life and activity around him. Maybe he'd even be able to remember something. What a cheerful thought, it elevated him.

With his spirits higher than ever – at least as far, as the ghost remembered – he walked down streets and alleyways at a languid pace. Watching people and their day to day activities. Sometimes the ghost even caught scraps and shreds of their conversation. Bartering, greeting and small-talk surrounded him.

Something shifted in the air, unnatural. Not right, it shouldn't exist here, the ghost felt as much. But the people didn't, or didn't care. He had arrived at a small plaza in the middle of a grand bazaar. A marble statue on a block of stone decorated its middle. A short man, features as regal as would befit a king or an emperor, he leaned on a cane.

A rumble shook the air, sounding as if it'd swallow the world whole. Now, peculiarly, people did notice. Heads turned, into the decrepit looking tower's direction.

A man stood atop, hands spread like an eagle. Cloth fluttering in the wind. His voice carried throughout the entire town. Yet, the ghost couldn't understand. For the man spoke in a language the ghost had never heard. It sounded very rustic, harsh.

When the man atop the tower finished his rant, a blinding flash of light arced down from the heavens above, striking the tower. Stone turned brittle, then exploded outward. Covering nearly half the town in a shower of stone and mortar. Shrieking ensued.

The sky tore open, alight with sickly green flame. The ground trembled. And out charged creatures of most horrid nightmares, unleashed and now happy to ravaged and terrorise the mere mortals below. The man atop the tower – clearly a sorcerer – had stared over the edge of the abyss and lost. Now everybody paid the price for . . . whatever it had been the sorcerer searched for.

Ghastly monsters, some with bodies of fire, and others only a shape of gnarled and twisted flesh, then some littered with thousands of mouths – tiny and large – snarling with dagger-like fangs. Savagely, they all attacked the citizens of the town. Tearing the limb from limb and piece from piece. Savagely breaking bone to suck them dry of marrow. The thousand-mouths often stopped to chew out chunks, nibble on an exposed organ, then continued on, in search of new prey.

The ghost could only stare, aghast at what he saw. Why, just his luck, to stumble upon this ancient piece of the past which drove stakes of terror into his being. All around him, buildings crumbled or caught fire. People screamed their deadly terror out loud, curses for the sorcerer on their lips.

Just then, the sorcerer appeared besides the ghost. His clothes hanging in tattered pieces from his battered frame. The sorcerer mumbled under his breath, 'Damned fool. What drove me to this, to think I wouldn't repeat past mistakes? Hubris, is the answer, you idiot. Now don't stand here and do nothing.'

The sorcerer sighed heavily, drew a dagger and cut his palm. Then, 'Witness, you all and make sure that no one repeats my mistake.'

Limping, the sorcerer stalked forward and unleashed wave after wave of his power. Even the ghost could feel its immensity, the raw strength emitted by this sorcerer's aura. Writhing waves battered away at the droves of monsters, driving the back, stripping them of flesh, extinguishing their fires. Yet, the sorcerer's wizardry couldn't distinguish between these ghastly creatures born from the deepest depths of the abyss and normal people. Everyone caught, sooner or later, lost the fight against the deathly sorcery, turned to ash.

The ghost could only watch on, doing the sorcerer's bidding in bearing witness. Hopefully he'd remember, what for he didn't know rightly. At least not right now.

Impressively, the sorcerer managed to destroy nearly all of the creatures pouring out of the angry-looking breach in the sky. Yet, it came at a heavy price. Nearly half the town wrecked, nothing left but a few blocks of scorched stone and wood. Other than that, only ashes of monsters, buildings and people.

For all his sorcerous prowess, the mage couldn't close the greenish breach dominating the sky. So, naturally, ever more and more creatures poured forth, each one ghastlier than its predecessor. Giant winged spiders with scything blades instead of legs. Stocky reptiles with arms and legs all over their torsos, keeping them in motion at any time, thus enabling them to swing their muscled tails like clubs. Tallish creatures made from wood, their limbs lanky, hoarding swarms of tiny blood-sucking insects, draining people dry of life. It continued on and on, the ghost already numb to the horrors and the suffering around him. With dull, non-existent eyes he witnessed. Nothing else to be done.

The sorcerer stood fast, holding the droves of eerie monsters back with all his might. Nonetheless, he slowly failed. His power leaving him, the creatures would soon overpower him.

Then, another roar split the air. There, out of the eye of the greenish breach in the sky, a massive scaled head appeared. Armed with fangs the size of razor-sharp daggers. It opened its mouth and spewed hellish fire, turning the rest of the town to smouldering crisps. Finally escaped into this new realm, the massive beast – a dragon of unfathomable size – circled above, content for now with its newfound freedom and the destruction it had wrought.

The short sorcerer, mouth agape, simply stared. Either no power or no fight left in him.

'No, no, no! Damned shite.' He backed away slowly, 'Fly you fool. But what about the people? Look around, you lunatic, nothing but ashes. Someone has to survive. Right, survive.'

With that the sorcerer took his legs into his hands and ran. Faster than the ghost could ever have anticipated. Soon only a dot on the horizon. None of the hellish creatures followed, they were content with finishing off and feeding on what few survivors remained.

Then, everything shivered and, like mist, the memory faded, the ashen sea slowly returned, embracing everything from horizon to horizon, once again. What few corpses and toppled carcasses of former huts, houses and temples still existed paled away into non-existence, leaving only bleached and cracked bones.

Once again, the ghost stood alone. Completely drained, everything inside him flat and dulled from what he'd witnessed.

Unexpectedly, the ghost startled at a soft whisper, floating in the air, caressing his non-existent ears.

'History, over and over again. A revisiting of mistakes. What once was can become again . . . '

'A convergence lies ahead.'

Then, nothing but silence.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_Please, tell me your opinion with a review or a private message (whatever you prefer), I'd very much like to hear it. They keep me going or, at least make it easier. Furthermore, without comments, criticism and encouragement I can't better myself. And I'm sure I can. Especially now, after my long absence, I want to know if you guys think I'm still on the right path or not. So, if you've anything to say, at all, please do so. I'm eager to listen._


	10. Prod and Pull

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so._

_Phew, I think I've never written a single chapter with this much dialogue. This chapter establishs a new recurring character (I hope I managed to portray her, at least, halfway decent), at least for the next few chapters, as well as return to two old ones. It'll deal with the aftermath of the rising dead at Redcliffe and Araris defence there. And there'll be a small revelation near the end. I'm sure you'll all spot it._

_So, enjoy! And, as always, please leave a review and I shall be a very happy author._

_EDIT: edited a bit of dialogue and corrected some typos and errors._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter X**

**Prod and Pull**

**.**

**.**

Leliana blinked her eyes owlishly. _Mon Dieu!_ Heat rose into her face, embarrassed that she'd obviously dozed off. Rubbing her eyes, she stood up. But, well, nothing had happened, from the looks of it. And, she was tired, after all. Life on the road didn't suit her as it had years ago. The Chantry of Lothering had made sure of that. Leliana, all soft edges, had to get in shape again for all this adventure and danger. Unaccustomed, she was.

She let her gaze wander towards the lone cot occupying the cramped, heated room. Leliana found herself to be fond of the privacy, if not the heat filling these four walls. Otherwise, sure and as inevitable as the passage of the wheel of time, somebody would call out her rude behaviour. _Staring is, after all, rude, isn't it? Yes, it is, Leliana dear. _

Notwithstanding the rudeness of her own actions, Leliana couldn't keep her eyes off the second occupant (when they're open, that is), keeping her company in these tense confines. Even though, up until now, he hadn't kept her very good company. Only a mere physical presence. More the strong, silent type. But that was to be expected. Lids shut, eyes moving franticly from time to time behind them, the tall man occupying the cot lay unconscious; Leliana couldn't expect of him to small-talk with her. But she had the inkling that he wouldn't be inclined to talk much, even if he'd be up and about. He didn't look much like the type to gossip and chatter.

Certainly, her rudeness could be forgiven, due to these unordinary circumstances. Leliana had been tasked to look out for him, after all. By Bann Teagan himself, nonetheless.

'Make sure he's alright. He's vital, if we want to restore Ferelden to a semblance of balance before all this is over,' the bann had said ominously and left to retake Castle Redcliffe, without answering all the questions ready to spew forth from her mind and lips. _Always with your inquisitiveness, dear Leliana. You should stop that, it gets you in nothing but trouble. _Something the Revered Mother in Lothering liked to say, her fair share of elderly wisdom and life experience.

Yet, she couldn't help it. So she'd indulged herself, answering all the question in her own mind, spinning and spanning marvellous tales and legends. That is, until Leliana arrived at a point where she felt abashed at her own actions. This man had been through death's door with one foot and she couldn't help but fawn over him and romanticise his deeds like a naïve maiden. Her past had taught her differently. Mind you, his deeds were worth to be romanticised, if only half the things people told about him were true. Nearly everyone who'd survived the latest night of horrors in the village of Redcliffe had paid him a short visit. Some touched him in veneration, others simply stood in the door staring before leaving again, without words.

Leliana herself had seen the heaps of slain walking dead at the steps of the local Chantry. They'd arrived just in time, the droves of creatures already lapping over the fallen man, scratching at the wooden doors and smashing in windows. That'd been before Edril, Alistair and all others of their merry gathering (as Leliana liked to call them) carved a bloody path through the undead and Leliana loosened arrow after arrow. Even Sten had seemed impressed at the dozens of bodies decorating the Chantry's stairs. But maybe that was just her, spinning a tale as bards and minstrels are wont to do. Could be, the hulking qunari had just grumbled something grumpy under his breath. Like he was wont to do.

Not a moment after the last of the creatures had lain at their feet, unmoving and torn flesh already cooling the doors creaked open. Bann Teagan stormed out, panic written all over his features, screaming at them to save this man. Wynne had done everything in her power, resorting to every trick, gimmick and ruse she knew about healing. And she possessed a considerable amount of them. Morrigan and Edril franticly applied every potion, salve and herb they knew of. But in the end, Wynne had to force-heal him. The rough way, she'd told them, because there existed no other. Bathing his entire body in sorcery and shutting all mortal wounds and healing all lacerated organs beneath in a few heartbeats. A miracle that the elderly healer managed to stay conscious after such an ordeal. Nonetheless, looking deathly pale, Wynne had to be carried inside just as hastily as the man she just force-healed.

Now they could only pray to the Maker for mercy.

_O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Guide this battered soul through the blackest of nights_

_Steel his heart against the temptations of the wicked_

_Make him rest in the warmest of places_

_Once more at the side of kin._

Interrupting her prayer, not entirely unexpected, for he'd already done something alike a few times, the unconscious knight tossed his head from side to side, muttering incoherently. Leliana dutifully rose out of the cosy armchair she'd dozed off in and walked over to his cot, kneeling by his side.

Gently, she stroked the stray strands of damp hair out of his face. Pearls of sweat covered his brow. Leliana fished out a piece of cloth from a nearby water-filled metal bucket, winding it out. Carefully, the former lay-sister placed it onto his forehead, the sides touching his temples.

With ease, Leliana began a lullaby her foster mother, the dear Lady Cecile had often sung for her in times of nightmare and heartbreak.

Finished with the soothing song, something proved to be different this single time of tossing and turning, though. His muttering not incoherent for a few moments, Leliana bowed down, earlobe nearly touching his moving lips, she managed to make out a name.

_Yavana_. Now where had she heard that one before? She knew she had, but where, Leliana couldn't exactly place it right now.

Then, Leliana heard a deep rumble, her belly reverberating with the sound, grumbling.

And off she went in search for something to quench her stomach's desperate cries. All the while deep in thought. Which made her even hungrier in retrospect.

**.**

**.**

In the small makeshift kitchen, set up right next to the Chantry larder, Leliana found not only food and drink, but also Wynne. Devouring a few slices of baked bread, stripes of dried bacon and a block of cheese. To wet her throat and ease the passage of dry food, the elderly sorcerers sipped on a cup of tea, a pot steaming nearby.

'Wynne!' Leliana nearly squealed. 'Already up and about, good! You're feeling better?'

The senior enchanter smiled at her. 'Alive, at least. Not so wobbly on my tired, old legs. But famished. Very famished, indeed.'

'I can see as much.' Grabbing a plate and packing it with as much as she could, Leliana joined Wynne. Quite similar to the mage before her, Leliana began to devour everything with terrifying efficiency.

'Tea?'

Leliana nodded eagerly. She'd been enchanted by the smell of it since she entered the makeshift kitchen. Yet, the ravaging need for food had won the battle.

Procuring a second cup, Wynne poured them both some tea, then handed Leliana hers. Somehow the bard managed to turn her attention away from food for a while and took a pondering sip of the warm beverage. It tickled her throat with the taste of sweet berries and fruits.

'Mm,' Leliana hummed, 'this is lovely.'

'I found some dried berries and pieces of skins of fruits. Couldn't let them go to waste. So tea it is, I said to myself.'

The rest of their meal they finished in silence rife with contemplation. Wynne broke it first, teacup in hand.

'Have you heard anything from Edril or Alistair?'

'_Non_, nothing new, at least. As far as I know, they're still trying to retake the castle with Bann Teagan. You think something's happened to them?'

Wynne put the cup down. 'Oh. Something dangerous surely has happened, otherwise there wouldn't have been all the undead. But nothing they can't handle, I'm sure.'

Leliana dipped her head. 'You're probably right and I worry needlessly.'

No, Leliana herself believed it too, if she'd be honest. Never had she witnessed anyone dance with two blades quite like Edril. And between their dalish woodland-folk leader, Alistair and his templar abilities, Fang the loyal war-hound, a towering qunari soldier and a Witch of the Wilds, Leliana was quite sure that nothing would manage to hold up for very long. Nonetheless, she couldn't but worry a bit.

'Has he already wakened once, the young man?'

Crawling out of her thoughts, she blinked at Wynne's question. _The young man? Oh. Of course, the mysterious knight and saviour whom we still don't know the name of. Only Wynne would call him young man; for her everyone is young. _Leliana had to control herself not to giggle, that wouldn't do.

'_Non_, only tossing and turning and muttering.' The bard's voice betrayed nothing of her internal amusement.

'I feared as much.'

'What do you mean?'

'Force-healing is a nasty business, Leliana. Arduous, too. And the body may heal and recover, but the mind isn't always as quick as the flesh. He'll suffer a severe psychological trauma.' Wynne stopped herself shortly, breathing in and out, before continuing, 'He could still be crippled by it, mentally. Or even die.'

Leliana felt her skin starting to heat, heart pumping faster. 'How so?'

'Well you must know that pain is mostly perceived by the mind. When you cut yourself, your brain sends signals and you'll feel the wounding of the flesh. He,' the elderly healer gestured with her head towards the unconscious knight's room, 'hasn't felt any wounding nor healing of the flesh. Which can be equally painful. It'll all crash down on him at once.'

'Maker's mercy!' Leliana mouthed. A short chant in thought followed, for his sake.

'Indeed. That's why this was my last resort. If there'd been any other way . . . or more time, I could've . . . I would've-'

Leliana put a reassuring hand on Wynne's slumped shoulders, at the moment only a stricken-looking old woman eating herself up. She gazed at Leliana and pursed her lips, then managed a timid smile as thanks.

Remembering something that would surely pique both their interest and, more importantly, distract Wynne from sulking and second-guessing herself, Leliana asked, 'Have you ever heard of someone called Yavana.'

'Hm,' Wynne grumbled.

Leliana patiently waited, sipping a sip of her lovely tea as distraction.

'Oh! Of course, another Witch of the Wilds, if memory serves me correct.' Leliana mentally face-palmed. How could she have forgotten that? A daughter of Flemeth, that's it. Meanwhile, Wynne lectured on. 'The Circle libraries contain a few books about rumours of her, I believe. A wilder witch, I'm certain, but not here in Ferelden. Somewhere up north. Antiva, I think. You'd have to ask Morrigan, maybe she knows more.'

An intrigued look crossed Wynne's motherly features. 'Why're you asking?'

That was when a wrenching scream tore through the Chantry. Both Leliana and Wynne bolted up and ran.

**.**

**.**

The scream loosened itself. His lungs felt ripped to shreds, his entire body aflame, as if molten iron poured out of every of his skin's cracks. His stomach as if forcefully removed, thrashed and put back in, in a very wrong way. Araris thrashed around, throwing off the thin, sweaty blanket. Without second thought, he ripped off the bandages covering his chest and torso in a frenzy, one after another. Angry and twisted red scar tissue revealed, he screamed again, clutching his head at the excruciating pain pulsing through it with every waking thought. His fingers felt out another bandage, along the side of his head. They'd cut off his hair on that side for better access to the wound. His golden mane, barbarically shaved on one side!

_Curse the Maker and all other gods, past or future ones. They'll pay for this. Even death they deny me, those selfish bastards!_

The door to his room banged open, a woman with short, reddish hair accompanied by an elderly woman leaning on a staff charged in.

**.**

**.**

'What have you done?!' He roared, clawing at himself, ripping off bandages. Tearing off slough from minor wounds not yet fully cicatrised, leaking blood.

He looked up at them, bright eyes sharpened with fuming anger. 'What have you done to me?! How am I alive? How!'

Leliana had to take a step back, heart tearing for this poor man. _Just like Wynne expected._

Loosening another soul-wrenching scream he made to get out of the cot, one hand stretched and reaching for a small knife nearby. Whatever his intentions, none appearing in Leliana's mind seemed beneficial for anyone in the room. Before the former bard could react and faster than Leliana had ever seen her move in the short time she'd come to know Wynne, the old woman zipped forward and smacked her staff against the hurting man's head. He went down like a limp sack of meat, unconscious once more, a bruise already dawning on his pale skin.

Too astonished to even so much as utter out a single coherent word, mouth agape, eyes opened wide, Leliana stared at Wynne in shock. She, who not a short time ago, expressed deep anxiety if he'd even survive, second-guessing herself for her decision. This impersonation of kindness and motherly goodwill just clubbed a recently mortally wounded man on his head like a brutish simpleton not caring for his healing.

Meanwhile, Wynne tried to pick up the unconscious man and hoist him back onto the cot. Then she looked at Leliana for help. He might not be broad or heavily muscled, but still taller than most men, after all.

'Would you help me, dear?' Voice as kind and calm as it gets.

Still aghast, Leliana mouthed, voice a pitch higher than usual, 'Why did you do that?'

'What?' Wynne looked at Leliana searchingly. 'Oh. Smack him up the head you mean?'

'Yes!'

'I'd no power left for a halfway decent sleeping spell and he was bound to hurt himself badly. Or us. And he didn't die in the first few heartbeats. So, that's something, at least. Now, please be so kind, come over and help me.'

**.**

**.**

Swirling shadows like curling shawls and twisting mists surrounded the small, hooded man as he sat upon a simple chair made of mottled black wood. He tapped his cane repeatedly on the onyx marble floor, trying to conceal his giggling, but failed miserably. The sound carried through the cavernous hall easily.

The radiant woman beside him frowned at his actions, then scoffed and stalked away. She huffed and muttered under her breath, livid.

_Prod and pull. _

_Pull and prod._

The small figure giggled on, comforted by the gloom.

**.**

**.**

Redcliffe Castle back under the control of the living and Teagan liberated of his nephew's demonic influence, thanks to the Grey Warden, the bann found himself back in familiar confines.

The Redcliffe Chantry.

Boats with the deceased had already been cast off, alight with fire. But, as sure as the dawn, another wave would follow, carrying those who'd fallen during the reclaiming of the castle to the Maker's shores. Just about to enter the room wherein Araris Cousland – his identity now revealed to Teagan, after he'd remembered him fighting in a tournament long ago – nurtured his broken body, the door creaked open.

Out came the red-haired woman, who arrived in the Grey Warden's company.

'Oh,' heavy with an Orlesian accent (though a soothing one) mouthed she, 'Bann Teagan!'

Immediately after she perked up and nailed him with question after question. Teagan answered vaguely, wanting to first speak with the last Cousland in person, but truthfully, nonetheless. Thankfully, the elderly healer interrupted at one point, just as the Orlesian woman took a breath, pausing her gust of questions.

'Leliana, dear, I'm sure Bann Teagan would like to speak with his, uh, guest, now that he's finally up again.'

Leliana, as was her name, looked embarrassed, cheeks flushed. She mischievously smiled up at him and muttered a quick apology, before both women filed out the door.

Teagan turned, and over his shoulder, 'Think nothing of it,' he placated.

Swiftly he scurried inside, locking the door behind him. Teagan procured a wooden stool and sat down upon it, elbows perched atop his knees. A hearth-fire cackled at his back, heating up the room. The moment the bann had entered, a battered and bruised Araris had sat up as much as he could, lying on the uncomfortable-looking cot. Pillow at his back, blanket down to his narrow waist.

Bandages had been recently removed, evident by the patches of lighter skin and the display of dozens of scars criss-crossing his body. Small and large, thick and thin, some from blades, others from nails or claws and yet again others from teeth.

A particularly nasty one travelled down from his left eye brow, over his temple, having chipped away a piece of his cheekbone. One side of his head shaven down to a golden stubble, an already paling scar blatant as the reason. The other side of his head, now shaven, too, obviously to uphold symmetry. Now only on top of his pate resided the former mane of hair, still flowing down long, though braided together in even intervals.

Gruesome he looked, like a hardened barbarian. Scars and haircut and all.

'You're alive. I can't believe it. The Maker must hold you in high regard, indeed.'

The last living member of the Cousland bloodline snorted. 'He'll regret that.'

Teagan furrowed his eye-brows at the younger man's words, but continued unperturbed, 'A heroic thing to do, but also foolish. You could've perished.'

'Nothing foolish about what I did.'

'It wouldn't do any Fereldan citizen any good if the last laurel withered and fell. How's that not foolish?'

'I wanted it to happen, Teagan. It wanted to . . . do you understand?'

Teagan had contemplated long and hard, if he should break Araris the news he surely hadn't heard. Long past news, after all. How should he have heard in his self-imposed exile? In reality the title as the last laurel couldn't be used. Not exactly. There were at least two, yet it seemed as if Teagan's decision to hold his tongue could prove useful, at least for Araris. He needed something to drive him, a goal for the good of Ferelden, not worry about a family he already thought dead.

'Your parents would be proud, Araris, you do know that, don't you?'

Araris Cousland's jaw muscles tensed. 'Are you deaf, Bann Teagan? Didn't you hear what I said?'

Slowly and menacingly, Araris hissed, 'I sought death. Nothing left for me here.'

A shiver crawled down Teagan's spine and settled somewhere deep inside a pit of his stomach. 'I heard you. Nonetheless, they'd be proud.'

Teagan could literally see, the Cousland heir surely losing his iron temper. His entire body coiled and ready to spring, he seethed with venom, 'the fuck you talking about?'

'They'd be proud, Araris, because you were ready to give your life in the defence of others. Dozens and dozens of innocent others. Do you even know how many lives you saved? All of us, an entire village. They'd be dead without you. And you made that possible, you fought for people you didn't even know, with no prospect of reward other than a painful end. Still, you fought. Granted, you might've come here out of a selfish calculation to form an alliance and gain Eamon's support to clear you name and retake Highever, not out of altruism. Yet, you only found death and destruction.'

Spit began to fly as Teagan's voice rose. 'And instead of turning your back on us, you were ready to die instead of us! That's worth something!'

'You know, maybe you're right: you wanted and were ready to die, but not because you couldn't stand the torment anymore or because you were at you wit's end. That'd be a coward's way out. And we both know you're anything but. What you were ready for, is to die because of a cause. And a noble one at that. So stop lying to yourself.'

Teagan rose. Araris entire frame tense, his jaw muslces working incessantly, the nobleman ostensibly swallowed a big lump. He kept his silence.

'Think about that, Araris. Think about my words closely, I knew your parents longer than you, you were gone for nearly a decade, after all. Left no word. So maybe you owe them the benefit of the doubt. And then some.'

With that, the bann turned and made for the door. Over his shoulder, he offered, 'Now rest, you've earned that much. We'll talk soon.'

**.**

**.**

'I knew it,' Leliana muttered under her breath, taking the steps down into the Chantry's courtyard.

'Knew what?' Morrigan's voice drawled from behind and Leliana jumped in surprise.

'Oh, nothing really. The knight who defended the Chantry.'

Rolling her eyes, Morrigan urged, 'Yes?'

'He's actually a nobleman of high birth. A Teyrn's son, in fact. Araris Cousland.'

Morrigan snorted, one eyebrow arched. 'You mean to tell me that a pampered nobleman fought off all those droves of undead. What did he do? Throw his coins to distract them? Bore them to death with tales about his lavish taste in food and drink or all the audacity some foreign dignitary possessed while visiting his castle?

'I don't think so,' uttered Leliana.

The witch stalked down into the courtyard, looking up into the washed sky as if searching for answers or something peculiar only her eyes could make out in the distance.

'Do you know,' she said, 'that they call him _Knight of the Maker_. What misguided plebeian fools. As if their god cared one bit about their fates to send someone. He's probably laughing at them, right now.'

As parting words, Morrigan simply spat, 'Pathetic.' And off she went.

Flummoxed, Leliana stared after her. A woman of no faith. And seizing every chance to voice her opinion. Sounded lonely. Terrifying, maybe, at least for Leliana, it'd be.

_Seems I'll have to ask about her alleged sister Yavana later, then. Well . . ._

'Ignore her.' Edril smoothly came up to her. 'She's had a bad day. No matter how powerful a witch you are, a Revenant can still skewer you like a wild boar.'

The dalish shrugged.

'Nearly, that is.'

With a small smile on her lips, Leliana began to gossip about everything she managed to find out today. And, as ever since she'd known Edril, he soaked up every bit like a sponge, never offering anything in return.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_As always, please don't forget to review or send me a private message (whatever you prefer) containing you opinion on my latest chapter, I'd very much like to hear it. They keep me going or, at least make it easier. Furthermore, without comments, criticism and encouragement I can't better myself. And I'm sure I can. Especially now, after my long absence, I want to know if you guys think I'm still on the right path or not. So, if you've anything to say, at all, please do so. I'm eager to listen._


	11. Shrouded paths yonder

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so._

_So, there you have it, chapter eleven. I've been taking far too long if you ask me, but work has been time consuming these last few weeks and now, soon, university will start again. But I guess I'll be able to post chapters, at least halfway regularly. I hope you'll all be able to forgive if I can't at times. But I'll try, I promise you that much, if nothing else. In addition to that, I made some changes to the future plotline here and there. It just didn't feel right anymore, but, I guess, now it does. Maybe someday, when I'm finished with this story, I'll write how I first wanted to conclude my story. But from now on, I should be able to write more quickly, because I've outlined nearly all future chapters of this story, or have them swirling around somewhere in my head._

_So, enjoy! And, as always, please leave a review and I'll be a happy and motivated author._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter XI**

**Shrouded paths yonder**

**.**

**.**

Araris startled awake, a heaving gasp escaping his cold and trembling lips. Sweat covered his shivering skin underneath layers of sheets and blankets, everything drenched. The mattress beneath equally soaked wet. But, well, a real mattress, notwithstanding that particular fact. Better than a too-small cot or a patch of dirt. Beds, a luxury he'd been deprived of for far too long in his account.

Even after a few days spent solely with the task of resting and letting his battered body regenerate, his personal stance hadn't changed. Even what with all the sweating and panting. Not one night had passed since his defence of Redcliffe village in which he hadn't sprung awake in the middle of the night, a scream of excruciating pain ready to escape him. Memories of the force-healing the elderly enchanter, Wynne, had to put him through in order to pull him back from death's door, still cursed through his every waking thought. Especially after he woke, then it was usually at its worst. Wrenching spasms convulsed through his muscles and icy shard-like sensations stung his bones and lit his nerves aflame. Thankfully, by now, Araris found himself able to stomach these vicious wake-up calls his own body regularly put him through. Though sleep always eluded him afterwards. Nothing to be done about that, other than hobble about the eerily empty and silent castle like some haunting spectre of past times. A frightening bedtime story for children. Wheezing, shuffling and squirming. How degrading for him. His pride as beaten as his body. The only worse experience had been being carried up into the castle's comfy chambers like some cripple, never to walk again. All the while folk stared at him in awe and gratefulness.

So he set out to do just that. Hobble and shuffle about, grim stalker of the night. Throwing off the drenched sheets, Araris swung his bare feet out of the bed, touching the cobbled flooring, warmed by a nearby cackling hearth. He threw on a pair of leathern trousers, his calf-high riding boots and a linen shirt. On the way out of his chambers he quickly threw a long coat over his slender shoulders, to top it all off. Wisely, he opted to do so. Nights shortened and became increasingly chilly, autumn fast approaching. Ferelden's iconic and usually harsh winter, with its long enduring snowfall and at times even brutal blizzards, soon behind. Already palpable with every breath Araris took and the fresh air filling his lungs, as he walked the old castle's high crenellations. Fortunately, the air remained undisturbed that night. No breeze to make him shiver underneath his garments. Nonetheless, unaccustomed to his new haircut, temples shaved, everything felt cooler than usual. His ears not kept warm and cosy.

Always prepared, Araris fished his already stuffed wooden pipe out of the coat and lit it. After all, his nightly time of therapeutic wandering and plaintive reflectiveness was the only undisturbed time of the day. Up until dawn and the day's pale first light, greying the heaven. Also, these solitary moments were the only opportunity to smoke without Wynne – good Circle mage that she'd been trained to be – breathing down his neck about how this hindered his recovery. But where his principals were involved, Araris knew himself to be a stubborn bastard. A heavy boulder, edges sharp, rooted firmly in the ground. Only because the elderly healer told him to stop he surely wouldn't. For that, he enjoyed it far too much. Life's simple pleasures.

Araris scanned the lake and the village below. Deserted. Lifeless. Asleep. Such a serene calm loomed above the place, the moon's silvery orb reflected on the lake's still surface, nearly a perfect replicate, glittering and glimmering.

He heard the faint flapping of wings behind him, then a spicy scent filled his nose. Araris knew what that meant. He'd sniffed it the first moment he met the woman. She wore it like cologne, proudly and unabashed. For everyone to spot, if one knew how.

_Shapeshifter. Soultaken. Those who know a beast's soul so well, they can veer into its form. _

'Greetings, witch.' He took another soothing drag of his pipe, inhaling deep. The hazy smoke rose in twisted tendrils, slowly worming its way into the gloomy sky.

'Keen ears.' A voice drawled, sounding a bit surprised, 'Not many would've heard my approach. At least, not many to talk about it afterwards. Unexpected, from a noble born.'

'My heritage I cannot change.' He shrugged under his coat. 'My skill, I can train.'

'That much is clear to me, by now.'

Footsteps towards him, then Araris felt a presence at his side. Regarding what lay below, just like he. Peeking at her silhouette his heart clenched. Morrigan looked so much like her alleged sister. If she even knew about her? But voicing his unsated curiosity could be unwise, so he remained silent, idly smoking his pipe.

'And I thought myself alone in enjoying night's silence.'

'Pleasant night, isn't it?' Araris mused.

Morrigan snorted contemptuously. 'All nights are such. Pleasant, that is.' Her speech deepened into a sneer, 'Bereft of pestering fools and whining cowards. Without all the panicked hustle and bustle civilised folk seem to adore so much. Not that they thrive in it.'

'They can be quite obnoxious, at times, I admit.'

Her response proved unexpected. 'Ha!' The wilder witch chuckled. She peered over towards him, features lit up in faint amusement. 'Do you even know what they call _you_?'

'Alas, I heard,' breathed Araris into the night. 'Knight of the Maker, sent down be He Who Watches from the Blackened Throne.'

'Oh, of course. He Who Watches. How ludicrous. He doesn't even care about these foolish dimwits, much less watch. Laugh and weep at their pitying behaviour, more like,' derided she.

Glum, Araris added, 'True, indeed. But they don't comprehend the gaping hollowness of their actions. And when they're afraid and don't know how to proceed, they huddle around divinity, seeking shelter in prayer. That they do understand, very well thanks to the unabating teachings and mind-hazing propaganda of the Chantry. Normal folk don't quite realise that every evil or bad thing, as they're hasty to label such occurrences, isn't necessarily evil or bad. I myself do not believe in such diametrical opposites. There's just cause and consequence, the reaction stemming from a specific reason. Most often because of a very simple one. A singular reason for all the trouble and misery tormenting this world.'

'That'd be?'

'That man is the greatest animal of all,' voiced Araris, his speech now uncannily similar to his father's, whenever he lectured him, though the subject more nihilistic by far. A shudder drove through him at that. 'It is only we who can decide and change our fates. No one else.'

Araris felt Morrigan agreeing besides him, if only with her lumbering silence. One she broke after a short time of nagging hesitance.

'My mother would've liked you,' the daughter of Flemeth muttered. 'I think.' Then she scoffed and remained silent once more. Araris, too, refrained from speaking, knowing the woman besides him searched for further words to voice.

'This has proven to be quite . . . invigorating. Against rather contrary experience. Words aren't exactly my forte.'

'It seems to me they're well enough.'

Without anything to add, Morrigan silently slipped down the crenellations. Spice filled the air and her black wings spread, the witch soared away into the dark.

Araris' heart once more clenched. To calm his stuttering soul, he took a long drag of his pipe, contentment filling him like the vapour his lungs.

**.**

**.**

Oh, how this gnawed and nibbled away at him, bite after bite it sapped of his exhausted essence. It gnawed at him in such a wrecking and devious way. No matter which way he bended his mind, which shrouded path or gnarled tunnel of thought he explored, nothing useful lay at the end of it. Thus it gnawed even more vigorous. He hated not knowing! There was nothing more frustrating and diminishing for Araris to not know.

Even without his surgical command over sorcery, he immediately realised that Teagan had held something back in the Chantry. Something of substantial note, so much that a flicker of moral shame passed through the man, as well as his eyes. He'd held something back and Araris had no inkling what it could be.

Of course, forcefully invading the bann's mind and pry secrets and thoughts out of every nook and cranny was out of question. After all, it'd probably leave an empty hull to wander around, nothing of the nobleman himself. Much like the risen dead, incapable of the simplest of intellectual challenges.

So, naturally, to empty his awry thoughts of all the mind-famishing gnawing, Araris took to mending his battered body and regain his old form. Not an easy task after multiple fractures and lacerated organs. Sleep eluded him and standing all day and night long on the crenellations simply wasn't an option. So, in the paling grey of a new day, Araris wandered down into the ancient castle's courtyard. He relieved the small smithy nearby of a fresh whetstone and began to care for his plain longsword. First he sharpened it, before caressing it with a piece of cloth sopped in oil.

Half a bell later and, as always, right on time, approached the dark-skinned and white-haired from of the qunari, Sten. They nodded their morning greeting at each other, contempt to savour the stillness of morn. Much like Araris, the qunari would first scrupulously tend to his weapon. Then he'd warm up with a few standard swings before seamlessly continuing with more skilful ones.

Araris had already debated with himself whether or not he should ask the lumbering fellow to spar with him. But until today, he'd always settled against it, for various obvious reasons. The qunari stood even taller than him, if not by overly much. Though as packed with muscle as he was, he must at least weight twice as much as Araris, or nearly that. Evident by the massive broadsword the fellow hefted and swung around like a mere walking stick. A blow from that would surely cleave him in two. Not to mention his own injuries. Wynne would've a fit if she heard of this, but well, he needed a bit of excitement, if nothing else to take his mind off his raging thoughts.

'Sten!' He called.

The qunari stopped his flurry of exercise movements, frowning at him.

Araris rose, longsword in hand. 'Would you spar with me?'

The frown deepened. Then he grumbled, 'Fine.'

They circled each other for some time, gauging, watching with hawk-like eyes for any novice movements. Then they clashed, quickly, without restraint, raw. And broke contact again, their first probe ended. Shortly after their blades met again, ringing loud over the courtyard. Yet, this time, they didn't break contact. Locked they stayed, dancing around each other, swords flashing. Araris thrived, his blood rushing in euphoria. Even though his wounds burned like ravaging rivers of fire. The pain only seemed to spur him, elate him.

Soon Araris felt the qunari establishing his defence, a firm one, yet, nonetheless, retreating step after step. Hence, before the lust for spilled blood consumed him and this wouldn't have been a sparring match any longer, Araris disengaged, taking three swift steps backward, out of reach.

Panting and sweating they stood, staring at each other, sword still held at guard. Then on an unspoken, mutual accord they relaxed their stance, swords pointed to the ground.

'Remarkable,' Sten rumbled, 'if it weren't for my eyes showing me that you're human, I'd say you're one of the _Isala'keii_.'

Araris frowned, brow wrinkled. 'I've never heard the term.'

'You must only know that they're expert swordsmen.'

'I thank you, then, Sten of the Beresaad.'

'And let me thank you for sparing me the shame of defeat. Though there'd be no shame in losing against someone like you.' With an air of seriousness, the giant continued, 'I announce you Basalit-an.' Purple eyes moved upwards, focusing on something behind Araris. 'It has been witnessed.'

When he turned round Araris spotted the lithe form of the elven Grey Warden, Edril, at the top of the stairs leading down into the courtyard, watching them with hooded eyes, _gauging_.

**.**

**.**

They lounged in a study of Eamon's, all three of them together, for a clandestine meeting, of sorts. The contents of their conversation, after all, weren't for anyone's ear. Better to keep quiet about it, if one of the servient staff would overhear their meeting, rumours would be abound like victims to a nasty plague. And that was if they left out the cause for Eamon's sickness and his son's current affliction. Possessed by a demon, that is. An unrelenting headache, all of it.

Small, roundish tables occupied the study. Filled to brim with old correspondence and opened books, taken from the long row of high shelves on the backside wall. Opposite, four opened double windows allowed them a view over the laid out surface of Lake Calenhad, a cool midday breeze easing their steaming minds. The cries of gulls sounded like a beautiful cadence from outside, flying and nesting above.

The Grey Warden and leader of their ragtag group, the dalish woodland elf Edril sat in his low leather chair, legs crossed beneath him. He followed the conversation between Teagan and Alistair over folded hands, piercing eyes unwavering and affixing them with an unsettling intensity. At least, Teagan found himself to be uncomfortable. Alistair not so much or he was simply better adjusted, one of those.

Posture slumped, Alistair breathed out. 'I just never thought that it would come to this. I mean, I knew that the possibility always existed, but . . .'

'I understand, Alistair, it's much to take in. But I'm sure Eamon would say the same in my stead. There must always be one of Theirin blood on the throne of Ferelden otherwise we invite chaos and despair into our lands.'

The young king-to-be ruffled through his short hair. 'Yes, but I've never been trained or schooled for any of this. I've no idea how to rule a country. I don't even want to know. My head hurts at the mere mention of it.'

For the first time during their rigid and unmoving debate, Edril voiced his opinion, 'You'll have to, Alistair. That's all there is.'

Alistair blinked, in stupor. 'What do you mean? All there is?'

A faraway look glazed over the dalish's piercing eyes. 'To life. It throws something unpleasant at you, if you want it or not. You can't choose your lot in life. Only try to make the best of it. And should you stumble and fall, rise and rise again, until what once was a lamb becomes a lion.'

Alistair sighed, then ground out, 'I guess you're right. It's just so much. The responsibilities, I feel like they're weighting me down already.'

Edril nodded sagely. 'You have time, yet, until it comes to that. For now,' his gazed travelled to Teagan, whom rivers of unpleasant sensations crawled down his back at the unfettered attention, 'I'd like to know more about this Cousland fellow.'

Leaning back, the bann clutched his brow in one hand, massaging. 'What's to know?'

'That'd be my question for you, bann.'

'I saw him only once, before now, that is. At the grand tournament during Summerday, the beginning of Bloomingtide, about a decade ago. Beat anyone quite handily. Even the King's Blade at the time, Ser Elric Maraigne. I'll never forget that duel. And if anything, he's gotten better. Though I easily admit, I don't know that much about swordsmanship.'

The Grey Warden sagged back into the comfy embrace of his worn leather chair, fingers tapping on the armchair. 'What else?'

'As I said, Warden, that's the only time I ever saw him. I've never even exchanged words with the man.'

Voice flat, the elf responded, 'I don't care about you meeting him or not. Tell me his story. Rumours, tavern gossip or worse, all of it.'

'There's never much to such slander.' Teagan grimaced.

'But something there always is. A sliver. A corn of truth.'

The Bann of Rainesfere scratched his neck. 'Well, he vanished shortly after that. Nobody really knows why. Some say for a secret lover, but even there different tales exist. Human, elf, dwarf, qunari, male and female, for every combination there's a story. Other rumours said he fathered a bastard child and the shame ate him up. Then there are the tales of him being a powerful sorcerer, maybe even a blood mage or in league with the wilder witch of legend, Flemeth.' Edril grunted a laugh whilst Teagan simply went on, 'There's much more, but I think it won't help us with our current situation.'

'But fact is that, as of now, Araris would be the rightful heir to Highever.' To his side, Alistair startled back into attentiveness at that. 'There's someone else of his family still alive. But she's far away and hers is a far lighter claim than his.'

'Who is she?' Alistair wondered out loud.

'His sister. But I'd rather have him stay oblivious of her existence. Otherwise he might run off in search for her.'

Edril soaked up everything in ghostly silence, whilst Alistair had an air of discomfort and unease written all over his features. 'Do you know where she is, Teagan?'

'The University of Orlais. And she's barely ten winters old.'

Alistair coughed, then gaped unabashed. Flummoxed, Edril looked at them. 'I imagine that's a feat?'

Avuncular, Alistair laughed and explained, 'She'd probably think circles around all three of us. And it'd barely be an effort.' Teagan bobbed his head.

'But why not tell him?' The half-brother of Cailan voiced the source of his itching unease.

'Because Ferelden needs him more than a sister he doesn't even know exists.'

Eyes cast down; Alistair grumbled something inaudible underneath his breath.

'You already said that once.' Edril's eyes narrowed. 'Why?'

'The rebellion. The main bulk of them took up the Cousland banner for their cause, because Loghain sided with the man who slaughtered them, Arl – now Teyrn – Howe.' Unwillingly, Teagan felt fire entering his voice. 'And, of course, because Loghain sacked the throne for himself and left Cailan to die at Ostagar.'

Breathing out, he continued, 'But if there is one who could end the rebellion peacefully or unite all the insurgencies into a single large host, it'd be him. Even Loghain would've to bow his knee to such a force. Not that he would, I imagine. Taken as his mind is by an imaginary Orlesian invasion.'

'I see.' Edril let his head fall back. 'Then we've to gauge Cousland's intentions, best at dinner, tonight. If he were to take up arms, then that could lead to a disastrous outcome. If this rebellion chafes away all human armies the Darkspawn will stand unopposed. And no combined force of elves, dwarves and mediocre mages will be able to hold them.'

Sullenness overcame them at the mention of the looming blackness, drawing ever nearer. Even the fast dwindling rays of sunshine of late summer didn't manage to elate the fraught state of mind.

'A question, if you're not bothered, Warden.' The dalish gestured for Teagan to continued, so he boldly ventured forward, 'I've always been led to believe that your people despise mine.'

The elf chuckled. 'They loathe them, Bann Teagan, to be precise. I simply don't . . . care for such trivialities, for I never really shared my kin's hatred for yours. You fought us long ago, we lost and were enslaved. Then we rose and fought for our freedom, helped by your Andraste. We won, only to squander our victory in isolation. And when we wouldn't come to your aid, our races warred again.' That intense, skin-flaying and soul-piercing stare returned. 'My kin lost once more.'

In reminiscence, Teagan found he'd have done better without hearing that bit of iron pragmatism from the dalish Warden.

'At dinner, then?'

They all nodded their consent, only Edril not visibly discomforted by the air pregnant with palpable tension.

**.**

**.**

The dinner had been exquisite. Too long it had been since Leliana ate so grandly, in the homely halls of a great castle. If there was one thing, well actually two, she missed from her time spent as a bard in Orlais, then that'd be the lavish balls and the extravagant dinners. Which, admittedly, went both hand in hand.

Intuition spoke to Leliana's gut. The arlessa would soon voice what hid behind the numerous glances she'd stolen into Araris Cousland's direction the entire evening. It turned out rather unpleasant.

Leaning to her brother-in-law, Isolde said, not at all hushed, 'What's this brute doing at my table anyway, Teagan? I should order a nice, long whipping for the one who cared for this seating arrangement.'

The man in question coughed. 'This, uh, is Araris, second son of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, Isolde.' With gravitas, he added, 'Heir to the Teyrnir of Highever. And without him the village would've fallen.'

Elegantly, the arlessa wiped her lips with a nearby napkin, deftly covering up whatever emotion flicker over her face. 'I see,' spoke she, 'you're the one who ran off, yes?'

Teagan sighed in exhaustion, hiding his face behind one palm.

Meanwhile Araris Cousland swallowed his last bite of salted fish, then laid back, fingers crossed over his stomach. 'Quite assuming of you, arlessa. But, yes, I am he.'

Isolde swatted his first statement aside. 'What's assuming? You ran off, quite cowardly, too, wouldn't you say. What was the reason for that, anyways?'

Teagan perked up to intervene. 'Isolde-' _Alas, too late._

The young nobleman's bright eyes sharpened; his features flat. 'I'd rather not tell.' His foreboding gaze dared the arlessa to continue.

And so she dared. 'So, truly, it must've been for a particularity cowardly reason.' She crossed her legs, peering at him closely. 'What was it? A particular nasty kink, hm? Did you strangle some peasant lass whilst ploughing her? Or did you maybe impregnate her? Or both?' She put delicate fingers to her mouth, mocking, 'O, or did you dabble in forbidden arts and black magic? Tell me, I'm rather mystified.'

Voice chilly, Araris ground out, 'Then you'll have to stay mystified, arlessa, for I'll not sate your curiosity where it doesn't belong.'

Leliana stole a quick glance around. Every conversation had ceased, every motion stopped. No one ate or spoke. All watched. Some in trepidation like Bann Teagan or Wynne, others flabbergasted like Alistair – unable to wrap his head around the way Araris spoke back to the arlessa – and then some, like they're wont to do, with a cold analytical gaze like Edril and Sten.

In the silence the arlessa tapped her finger against her cheekbone, a bemused and haughty expression dancing over her features. 'But you see, it does belong. You're under my roof and I like to know whom I house. And it's all in good fun, after all. We nobles simply have to have a few things which set us apart from the plebeian herd we shepherd. But we can't have you keeping all your mysteries and secrets to yourself, now can we. It's eating me up.'

'I'm glad something's eating you up.'

Isolde blinked at the retort, baffled, understanding not fully dawned. But Leliana had an uncomfortable inkling that things were about to turn unpleasantly sour.

Her tone motherly, she asked, 'What do you mean with that, young man?'

'Well, if not the slaughter of nearly your entire herd of plebeians, as you so nicely put it, as a direct consequence of your incapable actions, then I'm at least glad that my self-imposed ostracism has you all emotionally riled up. It's the perspective that counts, now isn't it, arlessa.' Finished, Araris took a sip of his red vintage.

Redness crept into the arlessa's cheeks, perfecting her look of indignation. 'How dare you?' she squeaked.

The heir to Highever set his glass down. 'How dare I what? Voice the truth. Last I checked that wasn't an affront, though not very well received most of the time. Much less is it a crime. What I perceive as a crime though, are your lunatic actions.' He embraced the room with a gesture. 'I mean look around, where are all your knights? The defenders of Redcliffe? Ah, right, you sent them to search for the Ashes of Andraste, a quite ludicrous quest, whilst walking undead eat your people whole. But why such desperation to chase after fairy tales and myths? Might it be because of your efforts to keep your son's blooming magery from your very own husband, hiring an apostate tutor, who, it turns out, was sent by Loghain to poison Arl Eamon. What luck that you led him in directly through the front gate. And your son must be especially grateful for this prudent teacher you supplied him with. After all, he's now possessed by a demon, must count for something.' Hardness eased into his voice. 'Loghain must've laughed his balls off at your all-encompassing idiocy.'

Araris gaze wandered to Teagan, a tad bit apologetic. 'Don't beat yourself up, Teagan. This castle's walls have as many ears as every other castle. Secrets don't stay that way very long.'

Composure stunned but not beaten, venom filled the arlessa's voice like a true Orlesian noblewoman, 'You sad, wretched little worm. How this must truly weight on you, to project your miserable failures onto others. It really does gnaw at you, doesn't it? Knowing that you failed your family, that you betrayed their trust. That they'd be alive, if it weren't for your absence. You might've just killed them yourself.'

Even Leliana flinched at the arlessa's scything words. Teagan made to grab Isolde's arm, but she swatted the attempt aside like a pesky fly, her gaze never leaving the young nobleman.

Yet, somehow, of all of them, Araris managed to stay calm, outwardly, at least. His rigid posture and lifeless features spoke of iron control, worthy even of a masterful Orlesian bard. Impressed though she may be, Leliana knew this couldn't be salvaged anymore.

'It seems I've overstretched my stay. I always believed the halls of Redcliffe to be of warmer welcome, but alas, times are changing. To you Bann Teagan, I say thank you, for jestingly advising me to leave my dagger back in my quarters.' Several gasps echoed and Leliana heard the rustle of chainmail as those few Redcliffe knights present grabbed the handles of their sheathed weapons. 'To you Warden, and all your companions, I wish the best of luck in your fight against the Darkspawn. I believe we shall meet again before all of this is ended.'

Araris rose and walked to the end of the table, looking directly at Isolde. 'And to you Arlessa Isolde, I sincerely hope that your son may never inherit a single one of your traits. If so, Redcliffe shall soon burn on the stake. Troubled by anarchy and chaos; your lands conquered by riots.'

'I bid you farewell now.'

Turning, he made for the door.

**.**

**.**

Into the heavily oppressive quiet Edril ventured, his artfully tattooed face scrunched up, 'Was that wise?'

'No, it wasn't.' Teagan stared hard at Isolde. 'What were you thinking?'

'Thinking? You really need to ask, Teagan?' The arlessa puffed up, her accent even more pronounced at her outrage. 'You honestly believe I'll let myself be insulted in my own home? At my table?'

The flat palm of Teagan's hand descended onto the table. The sound slapped like a harsh whip's lash. 'Well, you started it. And trying to extinguish a ravaging fire by adding lamp oil isn't the best of ideas, Isolde! We need this man.'

Furious, the wife of Arl Eamon plucked her silk napkin out of her lap and, accompanied by the raucous scraping of her chair, threw it onto her emptied porcelain plate. 'I'll not put up with this! Much less from you, Teagan, you, who should support me! Not keep your quiet all the time whilst this barbaric-looking filth hurls insults at me and _our_ family. Our, I might remember you!' She turned; the hem of her figure-accentuating gown swishing behind her, Isolde strode out of the dining hall.

Edril's quiet voice seemed to startle not only Leliana in the absence of the arlessa's livid shouting. 'That's not what I meant, actually,' he steered back to his original inquiry. 'Was it wise to let him leave?'

Leliana's mouth went dry, appalled at what their leader insinuated. Bann Teagan gazed at the dalish woodland elf, eyes sharp. 'Your meaning, Warden?'

'Will he hold a grudge?'

The Bann of Rainesfere huffed. 'Of course he will.'

'Enough to move against us?'

'What are you getting at?'

'You yourself said to me, bann, that he,' Edril gestured towards the door, 'is one of the few, if not even the only person able to unite the scattered rebellion hosts into one. A formidable force.'

'Yes, and?' The poor man, Teagan, looked to be at his wit's end. Utterly sapped of energy.

But Edril pressed, 'What if he decides that we are now, too, enemies of his?' He gestured, 'All of us.'

'No,' the bann sagged into his chair, deflated. 'He wouldn't.'

Yet, Edril wasn't finished. 'He knows much. About the arl, about his son and about Alistair too, maybe.'

Teagan sighed heavily, brow cradled in his hand. 'I already told you, he wouldn't. He'll hold a grudge, not make us our archenemies or some such shite.'

Leliana registered the faint smirk this brought to Edril's face. 'Very well, I hope it for all of us.'

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_As always, please don't forget to review or send me a private message (whatever you prefer) containing you opinion on my latest chapter. I'd very much like to hear it. They keep me going and motivated to continue this story. Furthermore, without comments, criticism and encouragement I can't better myself. So, if you've anything to say, at all, please do so. I'm eager to listen._


	12. A Trade of Subtlety

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so._

_Here have another chapter! Something to make up for my last month's absence. I'm pretty much writing non-stop right now and somehow I'm actually quite satisfied with this chapter, which doesn't happen very often. Most of the time its a cycle of writing, rewriting and deleting large parts to then rewriting them from scratch. So, yeah, there's that._

_For those of you who've been waiting for some more action and combat or anything related to the rebellion, well, here you go. Also, Farah'an being a bit of an awesome badass this time. Others have their moments to shine and be desperate, too._

_So, enjoy! And, as always, please leave a review with your opinion or should you have any questions._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XII **

**A Trade of Subtlety**

**.**

**.**

The cool autumn winds tugged at the long tent's rustling canvas, whilst leaves the colour of rust and ochre scraped over it like a mewling cat, again and again. A few iron baskets, filled with splinters of burning wood, crackled a sliver of warmth back into all their limbs. Small escapes cut into the canvas kept the insides clear of an unhealthy dose of rancid smoke. Not much, but a bit of warmth, at least. Something to drive the chill from her weary bones as Elya worked. Zipping from one low stretcher to the next, one wounded soldier after another. The sleeves of her beige coat had already stained, first into a dark chestnut and now nearly blackened into a mottled auburn. Beseechingly, the hurting soldiery moaned and groaned after her, whenever she left, begging. They hadn't even the strength to cry out their raw pain, long since diluted by shock and herbs.

Elya's tears had already dried, like caked rivers running down her cheeks. At one point – she didn't rightly remember when – she'd decided for herself to stop with the self-loathing, for it wouldn't help her patients in any way. She might not possess the unparalleled skills of a spirit healer or even those of a mediocre healer, like knitting a cracked bone back together, but she still knew enough about herbs and medicine and human anatomy. At least, that's what she told herself to keep sane and from completely emptying her belly. It sufficed to keep most of the poor sods alive. But so many arrived at the infirmary tent, limbs mangled and chopped or blown off by munitions, only a bloody mess remaining. Most of them already dead, the journey back from the field of battle too strenuous. But the worst of the lot were those who arrived, barely clinging to their lives, with one foot already at the Maker's side, hope filling their eyes at the sight of her. A mage of the Circle she was, after all. Surely she could mend their savage wounds and soothe their inconceivable pain. That'd then be those moments where she looked deep into their dazed eyes and saw the light slowly fading. Her vision would turn awash and the dry rivers of her gaunt cheeks would know humidity once more. Without waiting for them to dry again, she'd shuffled on to her next patient. Endless rows of them awaited, after all.

Gesturing, she beckoned a surgeon over towards her. Squinting he spotted what she needed him for and brought the fitting tools. Kneeling on the ground, she rested her fingers on the female soldier's sweaty brow before her; leg severed just under the kneecap, Elya uttered a simple sleeping spell. Dizzied, she then slumped back in exhaustion, having sapped every ounce of power her body could hold from the Fade. If she'd open herself one more time, Elya wasn't sure anymore if she could control the flow of sorcerous energy or if it'd burst out in erratic violence.

Leech, the fellow surgeon, meanwhile pressed a heated bit of steel against the woman's mangled stump, cauterising the wound. It sizzled and the biting stench of burnt flesh assaulted Elya's flaring nostrils. Her stomach churned, even after dozens and dozens of times of watching and smelling the procedure.

A hand grabbed her shoulder, gave her needed support. Leech stared at her, his thin, straight brows drawn down and together ever so slightly. In his heavily accented voice, he said, 'Y' ought 'a rest, woman! Or y' kill y'self. Won't 'elp no one, then. M'self an' the others 'll take care o' 'em lot.' His grip tightened. 'Go!'

Without even the strength to resist or voice a simple denial, Elya just bobbed her head up and down. Leech hoisted her up and helped her stumble to the infirmary's entry on legs of jelly. Arrived, he sat her down in a dirty folding chair and vanished out the tent's exit. Elya just blinked once, her lids heavy with sleep deprivation, and Leech returned with two soldiers in tow. Gently they carried her to her personal tent and tucked her away inside her comfy cot.

Sleep immediately took her.

When she wakened again, the lovely smell of meshed eggs with strips of salty bacon and sausages drove up in delicious wafts to greet her. A tray stood right beside her cot on a small table, a skin filled with water perched atop. The roof of her mouth moistened immediately and without second thought she fell over the meal, breaking her morning fast in frenzy. Half famished she ravaged the meal and swallowed everything down in, probably, too-large bits. Elya couldn't care less. Content for now, she slumped back onto her cot.

Some unknown amount of time later, the canvas of her modest tent's entry rustled open. It admitted the drearily bleached light of an autumn morn, encircling a familiar silhouette. Clad in a quilted leather jacket, hugging her sleek figure, Bann Alfstanna entered her private abode. Ungracefully, the woman plopped down on a simple camping stool, fiddling around Elya's worktable. Her hand steered clear of the present mess there with a branch of weed, known to slacken a stuffy nose. Delicately, the bann sniffed and inhaled the weed's tangy scent, wanly smiling at Elya whilst her eyes reflected nothing of it.

'Feeling better?'

'Bodily, yes.' Elya sat up on her cot, still wrapped in wool blankets.

The noblewoman simply nodded, as if she understood Elya's every plight and haunting thought. _Maybe she does, who knows._

Gesturing at the emptied plate, Elya said, grateful, 'That's your doing, I assume?'

'Indeed.'

'Thank you.' And she meant it. This small gestured facilitated her more than any blanket ever could.

Alfstanna leaned forward in the camping stool, fixing Elya with a serious glint in her gaze. 'I'm worried.'

'Well, frankly, I am, too. I'm not sure we can keep this up much longer. If the-'

'I meant,' the bann interrupted her. 'I'm worried about you, Elya.'

The sorceress blinked, frowning. 'What?'

'You're working yourself to death. And not only with your magic. I was told you collapsed last night.' Alfstanna watched her expectantly.

'Well, no, I dozed off, is all. I was only tired, understandably.'

Pursing her lips, the bann gently retorted, 'For nearly half a bell you didn't twitch a muscle, dear. I'd call that collapsed.'

'Yeah, well, but . . . but-'

'Elya.' Voice fraught with sorrow, Alfstanna appealed, 'You can't save them all.'

All of a sudden infuriated, Elya jumped up. 'Why not! I'm a mage, after all. This is what I should be good at, but I ain't. I can't even save half of them. My magic's about as useful as a cheap conjurer's market tricks. And you,' she pointed accusingly, 'won't even let me help where I could. You all just keep me hidden here in camp where I can do nothing but watch people die because I was too lazy to be interested in healing!'

Elya's ears rang. Never had she raised her voice like that, to anyone, at all.

Alfstanna sat stricken, dark eyes downcast, not looking like the noblewoman she was.

'I'm sorry,' Elya peeped, sincere.

'No, you're right.' The Bann of Waking Sea scratched figures and circles into Elya's wooden worktable with her dirtied fingernails. 'Those qunari are cutting us to pieces and we can't even properly fight back, thanks to these explosives of theirs.'

Elya began to pace. 'Then let me fight them! Let me do what _you all_ made me promise to do for the rebellion. Let me do what I'm actually good at.'

Alfstanna slowly shook her head. 'They're too divided. Using your magic against a small troop of them would be no victory for us.'

'But letting dozens upon dozens of us be cut down is?'

'Not a victory, no . . .' Elya could plainly see the ruthless pragmatism of war written on the bann's lips as she was about to speak anew. But she also saw – as much as the woman herself probably knew – that both of them didn't believe such callous words.

Abruptly, the noblewoman jerked out of her seat, a mischievous smirk blossoming on her lean lips. 'Come on, there's something we've to do.'

'Will it be warm?' Elya mocked, half in jest.

'O, no doubt about that.'

Frowning to herself, Elya started after her, Alfstanna already out of the tent. Nothing else left to do, after all.

Together the two women took a few turnings, walking through the mud-caked paths and arrived at the massive follower and supply encampment. Shortly thereafter the sleek noblewoman halted in front of a ridiculously large tent, nearly royal in proportion even. Two swaying lanterns cast the entry into a reddish light.

Dumbfounded, Elya stared at the woman besides her. 'A brothel, really?'

'Sure, they have the best drink in the entire camp.' Alfstanna seemed positively delighted.

'But, I've _never_-'

The noblewoman grabbed her hand. 'Yes. Yes.'

And with that Elya was dragged into the insides. The air impregnated with the sour odour of wine and smoke as well as the sweet smell of gluttony and naked self-indulgence.

_Oh, dear._

**.**

**.**

A bit light-headed from all the ale and wine she'd consumed, Alfstanna swayed towards the command tent's entry. The two attentive guards, silver insignias in the form of laurel wreaths emblazoned above their chests, held the stained flaps open for her to enter. Passing, she nodded her thanks whilst they stoically returned to their duty. Mentally, Alfstanna shook her head. _What else to expect from Old Guard._

Indoors, she found Leonas just like she'd left him, a few bells ago. He stood bent over the thick round table, intently studying a rolled-out map of the Bannorn, littered with worn figurines and heaps of messages.

Alfstanna grunted in amusement. 'Just like our sorceress, you are, Leonas.'

Seemingly, he'd registered her just now, looking up. Dark streaks and sagging bags hung underneath his eyes, speaking volumes of his weary condition. _The toll weights heavy._

She drove a hand through her short unkempt hair. 'You ought to take a break, because staring Loghain's armies to death isn't going to work. Nor will it bring you any new insights.'

Leonas scoffed, his light Orlesian accent coming through, 'Already took a break.'

Fishing a piece of cloth out of her jacket pocket and throwing it towards him, Alfstanna snickered, 'I can see that much.'

Picking it up, the arl growled, 'Damned barber.' He began wiping shaving cream out of his hair. 'I swear the bastard does it on purpose.'

Laughing, Alfstanna seated herself in one of the various wooden chairs surrounding the table, legs crossed at her ankles. 'Keep it, just to be safe.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Very funny.'

Fiddling around with one of the carved figurines, Alfstanna took on a more serious demeanour. 'What's the news?'

Arl Bryland sighed, crossing his muscled arms. 'We've lost another raiding unit last night. Wiped out to the last man. The qunari mercenaries are beating us back at every engagement, short or long. Soon they'll be knocking on our very doorstep. And I don't even want to begin to imagine what these munitions of their can do to so many huddled together.' He pinched his nose, massaging. 'The king-regent's army is only weeks away and wherever they march the Bannorn either submits or burns.'

Now Alfstanna mockingly patted herself on the back for joining Leonas half-inebriated. Otherwise the news would've surely sent her into a depressive pit right away. So the feeling would bide its time in fully sinking in.

But he wasn't finished. 'We've got to get these qunari off our back, at least for some time. Otherwise our raiding parties can't slip through. And without them none of us will survive winter. It even remains questionable if we do should they make it.' He paused, inhaling. 'There flock more and more to us every day, Alfstanna, and none of them are what we need. Soldiers. Plus, we can barely sustain the numbers we have right now.' Grumbling, he shook his head.

She embraced the wooden figurine with her hand, as if to crush it. 'Well they've shown spirit, in the least, gathering a militia.'

'Yeah.' Leonas snorted. 'And what should I do with them, send them against the qunari, like lambs to the slaughter?'

Alfstanna held up her hands. 'I'm just saying.'

Bland, he blurted out, 'They've taken South Reach.'

'Shit.' Her head slowly fell back against the chair's backrest in defeat. 'I'm sorry, Leonas.'

'It's meaningless. I knew this would happen from the day I left.'

'Meaningless? I know you don't believe that.'

He shrugged. 'I have to.'

Dismissively, Alfstanna threw the wooden figurine back on the table. Whereupon landing Leonas plucked it up and positioned it at its original resting place.

'What about Elya?'

Leonas narrowed his gaze. 'No.'

In response to his resolute retort, Alfstanna leapt to her feet, palms braced against the table's edge, she leaned towards him. 'I'm inclined to agree with her by now. She's the one ace up our sleeve we have, why not use it?'

Heatedly he tried to reason, 'Because, as you said: she's the _only_ ace up our sleeve. We can't give her away too soon.'

'Too soon? What about too late? How many have we lost? A hundred? Double that. Even more? And what for? Nothing. We have to get them off our back, so let's get them off our back once and for all! Drive them together and then stick a knife in their belly!'

She knew she had him when he began to nervously chew on his cheek's insides, yet he wasn't ready to admit it. 'Alfstanna, I-'

'I know its eating you up just as much as me. I can see it. We haven't the luxury of waiting.'

'Fine.' The Arl of South Reach slumped back into his chair, massaging his temples. 'Now bring me that carafe, I'm going to try your method. Inebriation for difficult choices.'

She obliged. Leonas gulped down the first glass in a single go. 'Maker, I'm not cut out for this.'

Just then Alfstanna didn't envy him in the slightest. Neither for his position nor all the burdens that went with it. Equally, this aforementioned emotion made her feel sincerely rotten. That pang settled deep inside her belly, churning.

'You're doing fine,' she feebly encouraged.

**.**

**.**

Farah'an's squad of six lay in wait behind an uprooted tree, its thick, gnarled branches and roots perfect cover. The terrain around them treacherous and only lightly vegetated. Lichened boulders sprouted in between high meadows of grass slowly fading to brown with slim and pale trees here and there. A small stream whispered by behind their current position.

Light had already faded from the western horizon, the sky darkened to smears of blue and grey. Crickets and nocturnal bugs chirped. From some algae-covered pond a family of frogs croaked and fireflies buzzed around, alight, like they're wont to do in such rural areas.

Vathrax, the squad's sergeant, lay besides her, chewing on a block of old cheese. Naturally, they'd no fire going. It'd attract far too much attention on such plains.

'We've pushed too far,' she admitted, sniffing the air.

Vathrax peered at her, still chewing and munching. 'Haven't had a decent fight in months, Isala'k.'

'That's because of your liberal use of gaatlok munitions.'

'Might be.' He shrugged his broad shoulders. 'But then again, they're all so puny.'

'Yeah, well, refrain from it nonetheless.'

The sergeant grumbled his discontent but shut up anyway. Farah'an cast a look around, analysing their situation. Nearly no javelins left, everyone bearing some semblance of wounds, bar her, and only three explosives, two crackers and one drummer. To top it all off, there lingered a foreboding stillness in the air, a herald of change if ever she felt one.

A rustle of undergrowth stilled them all. But no current had disturbed night's air. _They've finally got enough, it seems._ Signing commands with her fingers, the squad buckled up and got ready. Alas, already too late for such measures.

Dark shapes rose out of the high grass surrounding them whilst her squad crept back towards the burbling stream. Multiple crossbows thwacked in quick succession and half of the squad went down, quarrels stuck in their throats and eyes.

'Fall back!'

Farah'an relieved a fallen brother of his javelins and deftly launched two of them. The answering shrieks proved quite satisfactory for her. She turned and hurried after what was left of the squad. Her long legs carried her fast, rapidly changing direction and ducking to avoid the quarrels sent after her.

Then, from the stream approached another set of enemies, weapons raised they loosened another volley. Farah'an unsheathed her thin twin blades and swiftly deflected the single projectile sent her way without decelerating her stride. The shooter froze, staring dumbfounded. Farah'an didn't even give him the slightest chance to recuperate. Two quick slashes and the side of his throat as well as the entire length of his left thigh opened, spurting blood from severed arteries. The second set of fiends now recognised her as the main threat of the squad and shifted focus towards her. Yet to reload their heavy crossbows, Farah'an stepped in their middle and cut them down in a flurry. She left behind no wailing or screaming soldiers, only cooling bodies, already dead.

She spied Vathrax nearby and shouted, 'Leave them something!'

He wrangled with a bulky fiend and in between trading blows called back, 'What 'bout refraining?'

Vathrax scarred arm lunged forward in a flash and his fist took the other soldier in the throat. Convulsing and choking he went down, his pharynx squashed.

'Sod that, just do it!' He laughed a disturbing laugh and flung an iron-coloured pellet, a cracker.

The detonation nearly threw Farah'an off her feet and face first into the hard ground. 'Farther, you idiot!'

He laughed again while gut-wrenching screams of pure agony bloomed behind them. Beyond the narrow stream awaited the security of a rolling light forest, vegetated with thick bushes and cragged but small rock formations. Their pursuers had broken off the hunt, dissuaded no doubt by Vathrax's use of gaatlok munitions.

Only the sergeant and her left, they jogged on through much of the night. The crescent moon had nearly reached its zenith when they arrived at a prearranged retreating point. Sixty paces away the ground had cracked long ago and now stood erupted, like a rutted cliff, gnarled thin roots sprouting out the entire thirty arm spans of height. In its shadow lay a swampy glade, tripping trees with blackened trunks and moss hanging from branches leaned over muddy banks and slime coated rocks, everything cast into silvery light. Bubbles rising to the swamp's surface, the gassy stench made her nose wrinkle. Coincidentally this was also the very reason why Farah'an chose this as their place of retreat. You could smell it from leagues afar.

Dozens of squads squatted throughout the swamp, looking up at her arrival. The ninth of the Isala'keii cast a glance around, soaking everything in. _Qun fend, so few. _She'd arrived in Ferelden with her company nearly at full strength of five hundred. Now barely two thirds of that contingent remained, if at all. They'd been more mauled than expected. And although the understocked amount of munitions more than tipped the balance of any skirmish, they still suffered losses. Yet, every loss cut Farah'an far deeper than those of the rebellion soldiers. They, after all, numbered more by the day.

She turned towards Sergeant Vathrax. 'Get them up and packing. We fall back. And be quick about it.' _It's no coincidence that so many of us are here._

'Aye, Isala'k.' Not one of them ever discarded her honorific. She hated it; it reminded her of her ignorance and treachery. But, well, it also _reminded_ her, stinging every time anew.

Without hesitation he walked among his resting brothers and sisters and barked orders, kicking and whacking wherever someone moved to slow.

Movement from the oddity of a cliff stirred Farah'an around. _No, too fast!_ Perfectly illuminated by the crescent's lances stood a lone female figure. A long stained beige coat buttoned up to the chest and a teal scarf fluttered in a faint upcoming breeze. She spread her arms and Farah'an dreaded what was about to happen.

She tried to scream a warning. 'Teth a!'

But two dozen of her mercenaries already clawed and grasped at their throats, their gurgling one of absolute horror, lungs filled with scummy water instead of fresh air. Others squirmed and thrashed on the ground, clutching their heads, wailing at what nightmarish illusions invaded their minds. A flash as bright as the sun and sickly green lightening dove among her company, igniting the entire swampy glade, the methane eagerly set alight by sorcery. Everything fell into disarray. Veteran qunari warriors stumbled about, their coppery skin slackening and flesh melting off their bones in a few heartbeats. At the opposite end of the glade a stock of munitions caught fire and a series of massive detonations rocked the entire swamp. Even from where Farah'an stood the shockwave sent her flying half a dozen paces, her back cracking against a deadened trunk. Earth and rock and tree were violently flung skyward, raining down like fiery death. Then descended a misty sheen of blood and blown off limbs, in between mangled carcasses thumping on the ground.

Their retreating point had been turned into one hellish fire in a matter of heartbeats, devouring them with a rampant vengeance.

Righting herself, Farah'an's blood boiled hot and not only because of the unquenchable fires littering the swamp and her company. Foul magery and devious witchcraft, what an atrocity! _Basra Vashedan._

Albeit indignantly wrathful, Farah'an could only scream from the top of her lungs, 'Fly! Fly, you all!'

**.**

**.**

Atop the peculiar steep slope, bursting forth from the ground like a hanging cliff, Elya wrenched and heaved, down on her knees in the dirt. Her gut already emptied thrice there was nothing left now to pump back up. Yet the spasm continued, violently contracting her revolting stomach.

From below the mad cackle of raging sorcerous fire continued, whilst joined by the occasional thwack of a crossbow or the swift hiss of a descending blade to finish off those of the qunari who still squirmed around in agony.

_Maker's mercy! I wanted this!_

Her insides constricted and Elya heaved once more as if gasping for air.

_I wanted this!_

**.**

**.**

Her back facing the canvas, Ser Cauthrien sat on a simple stool inside the personal compartment of her tent, the entry adjacent to the commanding area where her staff gathered from meetings and such. On the table laid out before her, brought in on a wooden tray, was her evening meal. Roasted duck with red cabbage and bread dumplings, topped off with a glass of red vintage to wet her throat.

All of that thanks to the courteous generosity of the last in a long line of pacified villages and small towns. Roughly half a dozen had submitted their treacherous uprising against the crown at the first sight of her approaching armed forces. Weapons thrown to the ground in surrender and the local lord or lady already bound and gagged like a sacrificial present by either the cowering garrison or the fickle peasantry, as ever reliable to turn their back with astonishing speed when fortunes change. All Cauthrien had to do was speak iron law in the king-regent's name, take the noble-born hostage and leave behind an entrenched token garrison as defence and potential riot-subduers.

Camped at the western most turning of Hafter River they'd awaited the arrival of four companies of Gwaren infantry and its two auxiliary lancer wings, fresh and ardent from the taking of the arling of South Reach to supplement her armed force. From the Coastlands up north they still awaited yet more reinforcements from a large contingent of men supplied by Bann Coerlic for their just cause in quenching this rebellion.

Savouring the last sip of vintage, the King's Blade finished her meal, just as Sub-Commander Fledg entered.

'King's Blade.' The young, aspiring soldier saluted.

Cauthrien nodded at him, offering him a seat, which he declined. Hands behind his back he relayed his report.

'Runners sent ahead by the qunari mercenaries, ma'am. They've returned.'

She cleared her throat. 'Already? I was under the impression that they're hindering the enemy's foray supply raids.'

Fledg concurred, 'They were, quite successfully. But they were ambushed a few nights ago.'

'Ambushed?'

'Best see it for yourself, King's Blade.'

Cauthrien stood and marched out after the young sub-commander. From the command tent's exit, slightly elevated by the hillock they'd camped on, she could already spy them with narrowed eyes in the sombre dusk.

In the shadows of thin, pale trees, out of a wide and low ravine cutting through the landscape, filled with gravel, both sides armoured with sharp rocks, trudged what remained of the mercenary company. Dishevelled they looked, charred and painted in pallid, crusty ash.

'How many?' Cauthrien gasped.

''Bout a hundred of them left, ma'am.'

_Andraste's guiding light!_

'Send physicians and provisions among them. And fetch me Iskara,' she ordered.

'Aye.' The handsome sub-commander wandered off, barking orders of his own to a cadre of runners and messengers nearby.

Cauthrien returned back inside the command tent. She hadn't had to wait long for her second-in-command to arrive.

He saluted sharply, rasping, 'You summoned me, King's Blade?'

Leaning over the long war-table, staring at him, she snapped, 'That didn't go as planned, now did it?'

Calmly he stepped further in, his scarred, one-eyed face betraying nothing. 'Now that's not entirely the truth, ma'am.'

'The mercenaries were supposed to bind the rebellion until winter. Well, I, for one, do not see snow falling outside.'

'True,' Iskara condescended, scratching the gnarled scar tissue of his eye. 'But that's only a matter of weeks. Too short a time for Bryland to gather enough supplies. Their force is growing by the day and so is their need for provisions. And the qunari more than harassed them; they cut them bloody quite a bit.'

The King's Blade chided, 'I know the reports, commander.'

'But not the latest one, I assume?'

Waving her hand, she bade, 'Speak, then.'

'The ambush: Bryland revealed the ace up his sleeve. Now we know his cards, all of them, there's no sleight of hand left for him.' The elderly commander paused. 'They've got themselves a mage.'

That stunned her. _Well, nothing to worry about, sorcery Cauthrien could handle, should it eventually come to that._ Showing nothing of her incredulity, Cauthrien ventured, 'You drew him out.'

'He was acting too bold, like he wanted us to attack.' Iskara shrugged dismissively. 'But I wasn't sure why.'

'The qunari-'

'Are battered, yes.' He held up his hands. 'But far from broken I believe. They'll fight with even more fire now, ma'am. We've gained the upper hand, at a price, yes, but a bearable one. Our troops are fresh and in good spirits, theirs probably less so.'

She closely squinted at him. 'And I'm to believe all this subtlety on your part, Iskara?'

'You are to believe nothing, King's Blade.' A wry smile leapt to his features. 'But isn't this the truest kind of subtlety. Where one doesn't know if it actually was or wasn't?'

Cauthrien snorted her faint amusement at the old commander's philosophising.

**.**

**.**

Her freelance brothers and sisters let everything fall where they stood. Swords and shields, javelins as well as pouches and rucksacks smacked on the ground, jingling and screeching. Spartan tents were hastily drawn up, comfort not sought after, just a cot or a bedroll to snuggle into.

Farah'an had set a cruel pace after her company had recuperated enough in her eyes. Through numerous days and nights they'd jogged over the plains, only stopping shortly to eat and drink but for nothing else. It pained her to admit that she'd probably left a few stragglers behind. She just couldn't risk being caught in a clash with that sorceress again.

_Ataash varin kata._ Whilst it may be true that in the end lies glory, one doesn't has to actively seek out glory's end like a rabid hound. But as was another saying: always an even trade. And there'd be payment as well as retribution for this heretical unleashing by the rebels.

Farah'an spotted the numerous figures walking among her mercenary company, distributing soothing salves as well as fresh food. Normally she'd reject with a disdainful snort, but not today. And her brothers and sisters had already picked up on that, quick on their feet as they were and let themselves be nursed and treated by the humans among them.

In the distance she spied the lean figure of the youngest of the King's Blade's force's commanders, Fledg. Farah'an had yet to find a suitable nickname for him. As he passed her tent, she whistled, beckoning him over.

'Isala'k,' he glumly greeted. 'How are you?'

Gruffly, she said. 'Fine. But there's something I ought to do.' She looked him up and down whilst he merely stared back, not understanding. 'It'll suffice.'

'What will?' Fledg blinked.

Farah'an grabbed his smooth hand, yanking. 'You.'

He unceremoniously fell into her tent, landing on his back, eyes bulging open.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_Well, how did you like it? Stay tuned for the next chapter In An Age Full Of Heroes._


	13. A Haze of Time

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so._

_Please, be warned, this chapter includes explicite violence and abusive actions. If you cannot stomach this, I bid you to stop reading and turn back now. My intentions are not to exalt but rather show the strenght of resiliance and indurance of the affected immediately after and in coming chapters. _

_Things are heating up a bit __In An Age Full Of Heroes__ and different characters and their story-arcs converge. Which that will lead to is up for your imagination for now, but know that you'll read about it soon. _

_So, enjoy! And, as always, please leave a review (or PM) with your opinion or should you have any questions. I want to know your thoughts and opinions!_

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XIII **

**A Haze of Time**

**.**

**.**

The sky a dreary blanket of clouds overhead, the howling winds angled the harsh rain. Everything looked grey and washed out, fat droplets pelted trees and leaves and grass around him, creating an all-encompassing glossy sheen. Hood drawn up to cover his scarred features from the relentless downpour, Araris and his faithful mare, Kelpie, trudged along the muddy roadway deeper into the plains of the Bannorn. Nonetheless, he shivered in the biting cold as it seeped down to settle in his bones.

He'd simply saddled up and rode off, hoping to never return. Otherwise, sure as the approaching dawn, he would've slit open the arlessa's throat, just to bereave her of the capability of speech. In the end, it was better the way it went. There was nothing in Redcliffe for him to gain, other than false delusions wrapped in warm beds and food as well as gawking commoners. And whilst her snide words had cut deeply, Araris begrudgingly had to admit that they cut because more than a sliver of truth had resided in them.

Thence he wandered again in absence of a certain goal or destination, stumbling about as lost as a trapped soul venturing the dreamscape of the Fade.

The road, littered with murky puddles wherein danced drops of water, turned right and promised civilisation ahead, foreseeable by a faint swaying light. A score of lanterns as it turned out, affixed above the entry of a small barn, adjacent to a squat two-storied stone building. Above the edifice's closed door swung a wooden sign, marking this establishment as _The Dainty Bann_, one of the countless roadside inns dotting the landscape throughout the Bannorn. Dismounting, his leathern riding boots squelching in the mud, Araris led Kelpie along the reigns inside the barn where already stood bound to a wooden pillar another horse. Out of a trough it idly munched apples.

The nobleman returned outside and walked to the inn's closed door, by now his boots were besmeared about half the height of his calf. Pressing his shoulder against the heavy oak door, he entered accompanied by a protesting squeak.

Merriment and laughter welcomed him, belching patrons deeply invested in conversational topics of drunkenness and worldly matters. A large hearth was kept going in the tavern's midst. Feeling numbed by the sudden shock of heat, he shook himself like a wet dog and strode up to the counter, still shivering. Araris gestured towards the innkeeper, a stocky woman of middle age, dishevelled hair loosely bound in a greying ponytail.

'Good eve, humble ser.'

Araris fiddled around his pouch and let a few coins jangle onto the bar. 'A brushing for my horse in the barn as well as food. And something of the same for myself.'

'Right away!' She gestured with a stubby hand, beaming a smile. 'Be seated, will be there with ya in a moment.'

Araris nodded his thanks. The woman turned and hollered for a boy, who then vanished back into the kitchen, following her instructions. Seated on a small table by the wall, he didn't wait long till the innkeeper waddled up to him, frothy tankard in hand and the reek of sweet ale pleasing his running nose.

**.**

**.**

His brow and temples throbbed, hurting. Masons swung pickaxes and hammers inside his head, splintering stone with echoing ferocity. Time had blurred, mere moments into hours and hours into days. Hesitantly, Araris blinked open his eyes, his hand shielding them from a source of light as strong as if Andraste herself stood beside him in all her glorious radiance, illuminating this ingloriously stinking dump he called his cramped room. Turned out it was only the opened window.

Groaning, Araris half sat up and half slumped out of the bed with the grace of a recovering drunkard, his head spinning. Clutching his brow in pain, he stumbled towards one corner of the small room, where huddled together lay a heap of discarded dirty blankets not even the Darkspawn would consider using. _If they'd have need for such things, which they likely don't. _Suspiciously he lifted them up with one hand and the pungent smell of bile and vomit fiercely assaulted his nose, a sticky puddle underneath, remnants of unidentifiable food already dried.

Half-heartedly feeling disgusted with himself, Araris discarded the blanket and, finding his wooden pipe clumsily stuffed with Antivan weed he lit it, daring to approach the harsh brightness of the room's open window. Judging by the way the sun's rays already shone nearly horizontally it was already late noon or early dusk. The Cousland scion couldn't remember much of what happened in the haze of the last few days, neither the exact number of days, though by the near weightlessness of his pouch and the absence of jingling coins inside he'd been spending his time drinking. A lot of drinking. But, well, all this had, at least, one very evident upside: he didn't wake up early before dawn shivering with ghastly memories of wrenching pain wrenching his body. Finished smoking and his raw nerves soothed a tiny bit, Araris gathered his belongings and went down into the inn.

By now a few travellers had gathered and filled the inn with hushed conversation and the usual sounds of a tavern, too loud nonetheless. A minstrel played silently in one corner on a slightly raised dais. The innkeeper yelled behind the bar, shouting orders into the kitchen for more food to be prepared and refreshments to be brought. Araris sat down at the same table he'd occupied when he arrived, however long ago that had been. Quickly a decent warm meal and a glass of hot wine appeared before him, the chubby innkeeper looking at him with something like concern in her eyes.

'Just be careful, lad. Will ya.' With that said, she waddled off again behind the counter, to manage her surprisingly large staff of serving maids and cooks. Puzzled, Araris looked after her.

At uproarious laughter and the rustle of chainmail his head swivelled around, carefully slow to be spared of another flare of pain. A gathering of eight armed men occupied the length of two tables put together. Alert, his senses sharpened, Araris' eyes quickly darted to where his scabbarded longsword's grip rested against the table's edge. He couldn't detect any heraldry emblazoned on the men's armaments, though they were too fine of quality for mere bandits or thugs. So either soldiers or deserters, which only left the question of where their current or former loyalty lied. Satisfied for now, Araris dined, watching the drinking and roaring lot from the corner of his eyes, the dull ache in his head smothered by his alert senses.

About the same time as he'd ate up the cajoling music filling the tavern gently subsided, the song ending like the release of a heavy sigh. Araris leaned back and sipped on the remnants of his spiced wine. Seeing as the armed men felt content to remain among themselves for now, Araris relaxed his eyes. At the creaking of wood opposite him he snapped them open, tense. Hand already curled around the grip of his longsword.

The minstrel watched him with large eyes, a slight upward tilt a trademark of her race, amusement sparkling inside them like embers. Colourful and delicate markings accented her brow and the area around her eyes. _One of the Dalish, then. Once, at least._ Araris had never heard of one of the woodland folk voluntarily venturing out of their forest realms to reside among _shemlen_.

She spoke the king's tongue well, albeit with an accent, 'So what's yours?'

'My what?' He cocked his head sideways.

'Your story, of course. Must be a rather dreary one.'

Araris needed a few heartbeats to respond. 'Do we know each other?'

'Sort of.' She clicked her tongue. 'Not that you'd remember, as blasted as you were last night. And the one before.'

Araris coughed, throat still sore from sleeping by an opened window and the liquids that'd flowed through it for however many nights. 'There's no story.'

'Bollocks.' She gestured with her hand, up and down, and Araris was once more reminded of his rustic looks. Walking dead really made for abysmal barbers. 'There's obviously a story, you do certainly look the part. And, I might add, you're unsuccessfully trying to drink yourself into a lasting coma. Always a hint, that.'

Boisterous, the armed men shouted for additional refreshments, their mailed fists thumping on the tables. Araris gazed at them over the dancing flames of the large hearth dividing the room.

'So?'

Irritation laced his voice. 'What do you want with my story?'

The elven minstrel laughed sweetly. 'It's what I make good coin with, that's why. I have to have an eye for people who can share an adventurous tale; otherwise I'd quickly die of hunger, wouldn't I?'

When he merely stared at her the woman pouted. 'Broody one, are we? Very well, how about you give me your name and I give you mine, stoic stranger?'

Seeing no immediate harm, he told her.

'Great,' she beamed. 'Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Araris the Stoic, I'm Anethayín, travelling minstrel of mediocre fame in these parts of Ferelden. What say you? Let's continue this lively conversation at a later point. But for now I've got to earn some extra coin and hopefully a warm meal. Now isn't that some fine thinking on my part?'

Without further ado, Anethayín left his table and with fiddle in hand strode back to the raised dais in the inn's corner. Soon after, merry music echoed through the tavern again. Letting his mind slip away, retreating like lapping waves from the shore Araris drifted off to the sounds, embraced by them. He thought of the past decade and his time in Antiva, brighter than the present, and all he experienced. The conversations he'd had, not all of them in the common tongue of man and not all of them with man, elf or dwarf. Some with beings older than mankind, maybe even time itself. When the haggard innkeeper stepped up to his table he actually felt a state of nigh relaxation. She made to put down another bottle of wine, but Araris declined with a wave of his hand.

She spared a glance to the corner where Anethayín played, smiling wanly. 'Brash thing, isn't she?'

'I'd say.' Araris smirked.

'She's good folk, the lass, she is. Just don't take everything she blabbers seriously.'

'You know her?'

'Sure do. Comes here from time to time, playing that lovely instrument of hers. Always welcome.'

'She's from among the Dalish?' He asked.

'Don't know. Never cared 'bout such things, only that she's got a good heart.'

Araris nodded thoughtfully. Then he realised that the clamour filling the tavern had subsided by quite a bit. The innkeeper had a queasy look on her face, her mouth a thin line, watching the armed men as they now sat huddled together, heads nearly touching and speaking in quiet whispers beyond anyone's hearing like conspirators. That is, until one of the younger man, carrying around him an air of authority, turned on his seat at the head of the table.

'Hey, knife-ear! How 'bout you come over here and sit with us!' He slurred in an unsteady voice.

Anethayín abruptly stopped playing and looked at him over the edge of her fiddle. 'I don't think so.' She resumed her play only to be interrupted by the rough scraping and subsequent falling of a chair. The young man swayed towards the dais until he stood directly before the elven woman. Anethayín perched on a low stool; he towered over her small seated frame, small even for an elf.

Anethayín arched a brow up at him. 'Didn't hear what I said?'

'O, I heard. Just didn't like what I heard,' he leered and made to grasp her chin. The elf deftly batted his outstretched arm aside, a bit too much vigour behind it. He stumbled back a step before righting himself, blood sloshing into his cheeks, teeth bared.

The backhanded slap of his mail-covered wrist split her lip and threw her off the stool. Anethayín landed hard, a pained grunt escaping her. Relentless, the soldier grabbed her neck, hoisting her to her feet and Araris saw the trickle of blood covering her mouth and chin. In response, the elven minstrel choked for air and clawed at her assaulter's arm, feet flailing over the dusty floor.

The distraught-looking innkeeper made an attempt to intervene, but the young man's companions had already left their seats, spreading around and staring down anyone, some with swords unsheathed. So the innkeeper found her way blocked and wisely held her tongue. Their young leader started to make his way towards the tavern's oaken door, dragging Anethayín behind him.

'Anyone comes out after us and we'll cut the lot of ya all down,' he threatened. One after another the thuggish men filed out of the room, sending sinister stares left and right, though some of the men seemed less eager at the happenings than others, mostly the older and more grizzled looking ones. The door slammed shut with an oppressive finality, the room conquered by an appalled silence.

Araris could feel the innkeeper's eyes burning hotly on him, pleading, yet he'd spied something of greater interest. The louts' absence permitted him a view of a round, wooden shield. The heraldry emblazoned on it made his heart stutter in cold anger, flooding his nerves. Silently, he rose and slung his scabbarded blade over his shoulder, having secured it with a few precise yanks. No reason not to be polite, Araris let the remnants of his coin pouch clink onto the table, every set of eyes suddenly fixated on him.

'For the meal and the room.' _And any mess I'll make. _

Sighing, he strode to the door and exited without another word or glance thrown back. Outside it was dark already. One of the armed men, barely a man if the patchy and soft bum fluff above his lips was any indication loitered around, ostensibly having been posted as a guard to turn around any patrons with heroic intentions. He skewed around at the creaking of the door, a bark ready to escape, shortsword already drawn.

Araris gestured and the soldier fell back with a broken nose, blood streaming down his face and onto his garments. He writhed in the dirt, whining softly. Araris turned and walked at a languid pace towards the barn, from wherein muffled cries and gruff voices could be heard. Under the arched entry, two grizzled men shuffled around awkwardly, alert nonetheless. They visibly tried to ignore the noises from within. Probably saw their fair share of the senseless violence and atrocities committed during times of war and strife to not partake, anymore, at least. At the nearing of his soft footsteps the pair swivelled round, their hands snapped to the handles of their sheathed weapons.

'Stop there.' The one nearest to Araris held up his palm. 'Nothin' you can do, fellow, trust me.' His voice sounded despondent, not at ease with himself, further muffled by his dense beard.

'You've a man down, choking on his blood.' Araris dismissively pointed a thumb over his shoulder, authority ringing like the clash of iron in his speech. 'You'd better tend to him, soldiers.'

Their backs straightened on instinct and drill, though theur faces scowling sourly. When their gauging gazes wandered over him, spotting the silver brooch holding together his travelling cloak at the collar, they sucked in their breath simultaneously, turning pallid. _So they know, not only his family's crest, after all._ The two veterans banged their fists against their chests, saluting. 'Yes, sir!' Then, they marched off in search of their wounded comrade back at the inn.

Creeping into the barn, Araris felt a bubbling pool of anger and disgust at seeing the laurels of Highever emblazoned on shields and leather of the soldiery. The elven woman's garments hung in tattered rags, torn off by inconsiderate and rough hands, bruises already forming on the pale flesh beneath. Even though she tossed and turned, clawed and bit at every turn like an angry steppe cat, Anethayín couldn't fend off four men on her own. Three of whom held her down at arms and chest, whilst the squad's young leader fiddled around with his breeches, kneeling between her struggling legs. Paying extra care to let the edge of his silverite blade grate against the insides of his scabbard, Araris caught the attention of the remainders of the squad of rebel soldiers.

Their heads snapped towards the sound in unison, bodies frozen first in surprise, then in shock. Before they all jumped up hastily, the elven minstrel forgotten on the floor, swords flashed out of sheaths. Meanwhile the squad sergeant tried to lace his pants up, stumbling about.

'Release her or die!' Araris used their disorganised and rattled demeanour. 'Simple as that, even you louts should understand that.'

'And who'd you be to decline us our fun?'

'I'm not declining you anything. I'm giving you an ultimatum. You'd be wise to accept.'

The sergeant snorted. 'Carve that idiot up.'

Two of the soldiers came at Araris, one of them a muscled, stocky fellow with arms like trunks hefting a massive shield and a heavy axe. Shaking his head, Araris cursed the youths' foolishness but exploited their stupidity of not being aware of their surroundings.

Nearly in striking distance, Araris slapped the flat of his blade against the skittish horse's backside next to him. It lashed out with its hind legs, striking the muscled soldier on the helmeted head. Thrown to the side, helm carved in, he flew right into his comrade. The rim of his wooden shield bashed into the man next to him, bending his neck at an awkward angle. Both thumped onto the ground, with bones broken, fatally wounded or most likely already dead.

Which left the squad sergeant and another soldier shocked, mouths opening and closing like gaping fish. Ignoring the last groans of pain from the soldiers before him, Araris strode forward, longsword idly at his side. The regular's eyes widened as he neared, his hand rose pointing he told his sergeant, 'Oi. Looky there, sergeant. One of them Old Guard fellows!' He blanched, indicating at his silver brooch, the emblem of Highever's élite infantry company as well as his family's heraldry.

Without hesitation, Araris stepped into striking distance and brought up his sword in a flash. Clinically, he sliced open the sergeant's throat, a state of bewilderment and fear written on his features. In gushes of blood he went down, gurgling. His last remaining comrade fell onto his back, trying to crawl out of reach until his back was against the wall. He mumbled and pleaded, tears streaming down his face, the stench of released human waste filled the room.

Araris halted before him. 'That's the thing with an ultimatum. You only get one chance.' Thrusting, he drove the tip of his blade through the eye and into the soldier's skull, killing him instantly.

Araris breathed out. What has the world come to? War; quite a simple answer! Where base desires and cruelty ran rampant and brother turned against brother.

One of the grizzled soldiers entered the barn, taking in the situation with a calmness only a veteran possessed. He nodded as if everything were in order. 'Never liked 'em anyway. No spine.' He looked up. 'Orders, sir?'

'Pack up and pay the innkeeper. You'll lead me back to the encampment; I've been gone for a long time.' The old soldier saluted and marched back out, leaving Araris alone with the violated elf.

Anethayín cowered in one corner, huddled in her torn rags, sniffling. She searched through her tattered garments with shaking hands. The elven minstrel fished a spindleweed twig out of her pockets and lit it. The numbing effect strengthened by burning, she let the addictive vapour flood her lungs. 'You go to the rebel's camp?'

Surprised at what resilience she possessed to not be a wrecked mess he only managed, 'Yes.'

She took another drag, her pupils dilating. 'I'll come with you.'

'What?' Araris frowned, gesturing at the corpses behind him. 'They just tried to rape you while the rest stood by and did nothing!'

'I'll sleep with a knife, then. Anyone comes too close and I chop off their manhood.' She shrugged, inhaling. 'Not the first time it happened.'

Araris found himself to be half tempted to ask if she meant the chopping off part with her last remark, but decided against it, believing himself to be better off none the wiser. Shedding off his woollen travelling cloak, Araris threw the garment around her slim shoulders. 'I'll ask the innkeeper for some fresh clothes.'

Anethayín nodded and brought the twig to her parting lips.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_Well, how did you like it? Stay tuned for the next chapter In An Age Full Of Heroes._


	14. In the Shadow of Looming Stone

_Author's notes:_

_Sorry! Just. So. Sorry. For the huge span of absence._

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. __Rated M for language, violence and suggestive (maybe even explicit) themes_.

_Enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XIV **

**In the Shadow of Looming Stone**

**.**

**.**

Groggily, Anethayín yanked her head back up.

The mare whinnied underneath her, shaking its elongated head. Where Araris had come up with the name Kelpie, she couldn't possibly imagine. But it echoed with a majestic romanticism and a profound enigma, surely befit of a tale or two. The lone traveller and his faithful horse, companions on the path of hardship, both brave in their own regard as they venture the edges of the known world and beyond.

Anethayín jerked around in the saddle, squirming to dull the pulsing ache in her legs. The ride on the mount had been smooth, thus far, which bespoke of skilful training and an inbred aptitude. But after spending many bells in a hard leathern saddle, nothing could keep the legs from tiring, especially Anethayín's short elven ones, not even reaching the stir-ups. Blood gathered in them, crawling up and down her calves with a tingle.

At first, when they'd set out from the inn, she felt rather uncomfortable by the closeness of grim Araris at her back, his tall frame towering over her quite easily. The memory of those abusing pigs still fresh, clinging to her skin like mud, she'd sat rigid and utterly motionless, like some mortally scared hare, moving only when absolutely necessary or in flight. But, after some time with him in the saddle, Anethayín had mentally berated herself for her frailty and managed to forcibly relax somewhat. Might be she even dozed off from time to time, her sleepy head lolling to one side and resting on Araris' lean arms, snuggled around her slim shoulders to grab the reigns. Only to snap out of the bliss and back into wakefulness. Not that she'd admit any of this, the pride of her people seethed fiercely inside her, after all.

Thankfully, Araris possessed the decency to never mention it.

Meanwhile, the two older soldiers, marching besides them without so much as a single complaint, and Araris were entertaining a lively conversation filled with all kinds of sombre subjects.

'You 'eard right, ser. First to fall after the Landsmeet were Bann Bronach's forces. Loghain met with 'em for a parle.'

The burly, broad-set soldier interjected, 'Parley, you thickhead.'

'Fine. Parley, then. Satisfied, Corks?'

'Sure am. Don't forget who you're talkin' to, Jan. Bit of respect wouldn't be misplaced.'

'Right, I ain't forgettin'. But I might if you keep interruptin' me, you bloated old toad.'

Barrel of a chest heaving, Corks just bellowed a rumble of a laugh that yanked Anethayín once more back from the blurry edges of sleep. The burly soldier fell back a few steps to tend to the oxen-strung cart behind them, carrying all the supplies Araris managed to haggle over and buy from the dear innkeeper at an adequate price.

'Anyways,' Jan continued, 'Lothering supposedly fell to the 'Spawn. Haven't had news from there in weeks-'

Behind her, Anethayín heard Araris mumble something inaudible to himself, like a man gone mad by demonic possession. Cryptic syllables murmured like a faint tug on the canopy of clouds and sky, a current riding the winds.

Probably, just her sleepy mind relaying outrageous things and assumptions through her hearing.

'-then the King's Blade's forces entered the Bannorn. An' wherever they go, villages either burn or lay down their arms. Last we 'eard there was a bloodbath somewhere near Oswin. An entire settlement.' Jan's bubbling speech turned abruptly solemn. 'Gone.'

'And now they're comin' for us.' Sunken eyes cast down, posture shrunken inwards, like a house of cards folding down upon itself. 'It's either them takin' us or winter 'll freeze us alive.'

'Neither shall be your fate. I promise you that, soldier.'

Jan looked up at Araris, wide-eyed but with a certain sense of vague mistrust sparkling in his dark irises like embers. 'How can you be so sure, ser?'

Araris looked up and away, gazing at something far off and answered, ominously, 'Change is coming.'

Now, she was sure, there had to be some kind of story hiding in plain sight behind that man's introverted composure. Only thing missing was for him to add that he'd smelt the fickle tides of the world in the air, which way they leaned and which not. No normal person went around spewing what awfully sounded like prophesies without good cause.

'If I might, ser?' Jan hesitated. 'Uh, know your name, that is? You never told us how to address you.'

Anethayín felt the rider behind her stiffen slightly, her ears spanned taunt she listened with interest and was rewarded.

'Tristan . . . and before you feel the need to question any further, _soldier_, I've been to Orlais as by our late teyrn's orders regarding important business with the Imperial Court when . . . all this . . . started. I made haste to return.'

'Aye, ser,' Jan replied sheepishly, catching up on the fibre of steel forged into Araris' voice. 'Didn't mean to pry, ser.'

'No need to apologise for curiosity, soldier.'

Poor Jan, Araris–Tristan had him already wrapped around his delicate fingers, ready to dance to his personal tunes.

Anethayín would have to be patient, for now. Mysteries to unravel, blankets of secrets to be lifted, the truth beneath exposed.

How delightful.

**.**

**.**

'Left,' the sturdy veteran grumbled. 'We've got to turn left.'

'You been hit up the head, Corks?' Jan mocked, knocking against his own pointed helm, camail rustling.

Corks smacked his comrade lightly on the shoulder. 'And where's your sense of direction, you idiot? Flushed out with the last dump?'

Jan, stumbled, arms flailing, seeking to regain a measure of balance. 'Only 'cause the signpost isn't where it should be, doesn't mean I don't know my way about, oaf.'

'Sure, it does.' Corks laughed, his beard shaking.

_Mythal fend._ Burying her head in her crossed arms' crooks, Anethayín let their ceaseless bickering merge with the noise-palette of the rural vicinity. Insects buzzed and seldom birds sang their cheerful autumn goodbye.

They'd stopped for a short pause in the vicinity of some sheltering trees towering over a withering meadow, everything turning dour and brown. The sun up high, it had to be about midday. Araris' horse and their oxen rested at a tiny pond, nearby, regaining their strength for the journey to come, quietly sipping fresh water. Just like everyone else, sans emptying the pond of fluids, understandably. Araris stood next to the animals, carefully brushing down Kelpie's fur, silently muttering words of encouragement, no doubt.

The youngest of their company of five, barely a man, his face puffed und heavily marred by the marks of youth, lay on an outstretched woollen blanket on the ground. He snored audibly, probably because of his crooked nose, broken recently and set not quite right. Courtesy of Araris, if the elven minstrel were to guess, not that she had to. Rather blatant, what with all the sour looks the young soldier shot the tall, severe-looking man who'd sliced up his comrades barely a few days ago. Yet, he never more than let his gaze dart peripherally over her, like a shy suitor.

One night, around the fire, Anethayín caught him staring at her with a strange expression – not filled with violent intent, but . . . strange, nonetheless. Naturally, when she looked over, flashing her teeth like she'd seen the wolves do, he cast his eyes downward faster than a plunging eagle diving for prey. Maybe he felt regret pour through him, and if so, Anethayín prayed to Elgar'nan that he'd devour his consciousness whole. Bit by juicy bit. The shemlen should count himself lucky to be alive. If he'd been in the barn with the rest of those pigs, Araris would've probably cut him down as well. Would that not have been the case, Anethayín would've kicked him between the legs until blood flowed. Then she'd be rid of the snoring, too. She smiled into her arms at the notion.

She heard soft footfalls rustle grass and deadened leaves. Peeking with one eye, she spotted Araris on his haunches next to her, looking right back.

He nodded his head into the direction of the two veteran soldiers bickering like an old couple. 'They've been kind of lively since this morning.'

Anethayín sat up, blowing escaped bangs out of her face. 'They tried to apologise.'

'And?' Araris watched her expectantly.

'I threatened them, of course.'

'Threatened them how?'

She made a delicate stroking motion as if to play a sweet note on her fiddle. 'Hot knife to the balls.'

He half snorted, half bellowed a laugh.

She shrugged. 'Reacted pretty similar, those two, they did. Laughed and told me, "Thanks for the warning, fair lady." Then turned back and sauntered off like it never happened.'

Araris slumped back onto the meadow, a fully-fledged laugh escaping his lips, his fine-boned hands clutching his belly. Anethayín's devious smirk blossomed into a gentle smile at seeing him there, turning on the ground, laughing with the carefree attitude of childlike glee, unable to stop. She'd never even seen him admit a smile. It made him look younger by a few years. And now this, it was infectious. But it also had a tinge of wrongness woven into it, no, not wrongness per say, rather a certain kind of roughness. The one emerging hand in hand with sparse experience on the matter.

Sad, that.

What was a life without a good, shaking laugh now and then?

Recovered, he breathed, 'Hah, soldiers. What a special lot.'

'Special, indeed.' She snickered. 'Don't even know the way back to their own camp.'

'Never mind that.'

Anethayín looked at him, perplexed. 'I thought you wanted to get there?' _Certainly were in a hurry to leave the inn._

'And I've a very good idea where they'll likely be camped. If Bryland has a half-decent sense for military tactics, that is, and judging by our general direction.' Proclaimed like he knew the man, some high-up noble, if Anethayín remembered correctly.

Knowing nothing more concrete about this Bryland fellow and even less so about warfare the elven minstrel opted to follow up on his first line. 'You do?'

Confidently, he nodded. 'The massive rock formations bit more than three leagues north-west of Iachus Valley, would be my choice. Easy to defend, nightmare to attack and great oversight over the plains beyond.' The human knight–or whatever he actually was or what his name might be–spoke like he knew his trade.

'So,' Anethayín hummed. 'Which way?'

Besides her in the grass, he blinked. 'Hm?'

'Left or right?'

'Left.' Araris smirked. 'But let's rest for some more, whilst our trusty guides settle for a decision.'

**.**

**.**

Anethayín gasped awake.

As if her life depended on the mere solace of the touch, she tightly clutched the hilt of her slim knife. A barrier between her and despair. The only companion she admitted entrance into her small tent these last few days.

A source of security, of power, being able to reclaim the parts of her mind still rattled by past events. Shouldn't put lipstick on the pig. Not past events–rape. They tried to rape her.

Even the mental conjuration of the word sent her heart flapping like a frightened crow off into the sky and far away. Sweat clung to her skin, dampening her thin clothes. The feeling of sickness that accompanied the feverish warmth of her sweaty skin battled the gusts of cold trying to sneak inside her sleeping place. The sensation tickled nauseously inside her stomach and throat.

Rolling into a ball, hugging the layers of blankets tightly around her slim figure, she let go of the knife. Reluctantly.

She concentrated on simply breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In-

At a clinking sound, she startled upright. Without conscious thought her easy-to-hide knife appeared in her vice-like grip again, as if by magic.

Anethayín waited and strained her ears. Movement. Something was out there, skulking in the shadows, watching their camp.

What happened to the guard? Araris had taken the first shift upon him willingly. By now someone else had to be out there, ready to wake the entire camp if so much as a whiff of danger got carried to them by the nightly currents.

Messily splayed out all around her, Anethayín gathered all the parts of her courage she could muster and parted the flaps of her tent's entrance, sneaking a peak outside. The weight, however light, of her knife reassured her.

The fire still cackled in delight, burning away happily.

Other than that she could see nothing. Not a single decent soul. Most importantly, no one guarded the entire camp against dangers.

No Araris. A shock in itself, locking its fangs deep inside her anxious mind, it tore the wound of terror further open. He'd been around every moment she'd spent awake during the last few days. His absence alone sent her spinning into a hole she might never resurface from.

Her heart raced, like distant thunder.

Teeth crunching against each other, jaw locked in a resolute expression, Anethayín stepped outside. Staying on her haunches for a few seconds she cast her gaze around. But the dancing fire wouldn't allow even her elven vision to adjust and penetrate the farther patches of darkness.

Left of her, the elven minstrel spied a bow and a quiver full of arrows. Wagering her chances of survival against any foe higher with them in her hands, she took a measured step towards them, mindful of the ground underneath. Mildly proud of herself, she managed to reach the weapon soundlessly.

Or so she thought.

Behind her. Grass rustled. Something approached. Stretching its claws, ready to tear her into pieces.

Anethayín froze, mortal fear paralysing her limbs. Upset with herself, she urged the rational part of her mind that this was the worst course of action to take in a situation such as this.

Abandoning all efforts of subtlety, Anethayín let her knife fall to the ground with a muffled thud, drew an arrow out of the quiver and swung around.

The projectile already notched, she drew the string back to her cheek and opened her mouth in order to let the mightiest shout she possessed escape. Alert the others, her highest directive right now. Then she might've a chance of witnessing the paling dawn of another day.

Before being able to fully turn around, an iron grip latched onto her forearm. Her heart stuttered and she let the arrow fly. With a whoosh, it vanished somewhere in the forest surrounding the camp. The scream for help exploding from her lungs was subdued by calloused hands grabbing her mouth.

'What're you trying to do with that?'

Anethayín squirmed and clawed with her free hand until her eyes adjusted. Anger welled up inside her, tinged with a wave of relief like she'd never felt before.

Araris relinquished her forearm and gestured for her to be quiet before removing the hand covering her mouth, lest she'd wake the rest of the camp.

'You fucking bastard! Gave me a heart attack.'

It seemed she didn't align the pitch of her voice according to his expectations.

He hissed. 'Quiet!'

Anethayín dug out her most impressive glare. The imagination of stabbing holes into his face with just her eyes vividly played out in her mind and, as an immediate response, an ugly smirk taunted her features.

'Don't look at me like that.' Araris appeared unfazed. 'You came out here on your own volition.'

She snorted. 'Because I heard something move.'

'Well, forgive me, your highness,' he drawled, 'for the audacity to walk the camp's edges just to make sure nothing slipped through.'

Araris took her by the shoulders and turned her around, facing the fireplace. Gently, he steered her to a tree log they'd used as a bench.

'Sit,' he said.

Grudgingly, Anethayín did, still hot-blooded she frowned at him.

'What did you expect? A wild bear? Bandits? Maybe a horde of darkspawn?'

His dismissive tone riled her up. 'Well, how should I know you tend to stroll around camp whilst guarding it?'

Araris sighed and flopped down on a boulder, opposite her. He clutched his brow and started to massage his eyes. With his proximity to the licking fingers of fire between them, she caught a good look of his appearance.

'By the Elgar'nan, you look like shit.'

Looking at her, Araris smiled tiredly. 'The reason for why I stroll around the camp is simple; spending your watch near the fire tends to screw up your eyesight. Watching from the dark makes it easier.' It appeared he wanted to add more, but then closed his mouth. Instead, he gazed at his hands as if they contained answers to all things and mysteries unanswered, the very fabric of the world around them laid out like a map.

Regret and sadness poured through Anethayín in droplets. She went over and crouched in front of him. He showed no sign of acknowledgment to her intimate closeness.

Hesitantly, carefully, as if touching a valuable gem for the first time, unsure of what to do, nervous like a virgin, Anethayín embraced his hands with her own.

His clouded gaze went up to meet her, surprise whirled inside them.

'How long have you been out here,' Anethayín asked, softly.

He looked down again. 'I don't remember.'

'It's nearly dawn. Why haven't you woken any of the others?'

Araris stayed silent.

She pressed. 'You could've woken me. I can guard the camp as well, you know. My ears would pick up anything that moves far earlier than yours, anyway.'

'It's not that.'

'What is it, then?'

'There's no need for any of you to spend the night out here. I'm putting my insomnia to use.'

Her heart wrenched at his careless tone. 'You can't sleep?'

'Can't. Don't want to. What's the difference?'

Her vision slightly blurred, Anethayín's eyes felt ready to bleed tears for this scarred, poor soul. Araris' reaction seemed far more composed, at least on the outside. His features were a slack, unemotional mask, eyes far off in the distance.

'You want to tell me?'

Araris shrugged. The motion said not particularly. But he did, anyway.

'My family was butchered. The man who murdered them walks around unscathed, pronouncing his actions just. And I wasn't even there to protect them.'

He sneered. 'I should've been with them.'

Something lodged itself inside Anethayín's throat and stayed there. Nothing else than silence seemed plausible as a reaction to his revelation.

'I should've died with them.'

'No. Don't—' Anethayín swallowed a lump. 'It wasn't your fault, Araris. I'm sure you did everything you could.'

The expression which briefly flickered over his stoic features twisted them into something uncomfortable. A cold iron hid behind his piercing eyes. An eerie flicker zipped through them like the haunting image of something spectral hidden underneath.

'I'd have sliced that fucking traitor into pieces.'

_Traitor._

_Family._

_Tristan._

_Araris._

_Silver brooch._

_A sword splitting a laurel wreath._

_Cousland._

He continued, unaware of the gears grinding inside her head, finally clicking, alight with questions and possible answers. 'It's all I have left. My light at the end of the tunnel.'

'Your family,' she said. His gaze rose back up. 'That's why you didn't tell them. They'd know your name. You're a noble.'

A small, genuine smile graced his gaunt features. Araris nodded. 'I figured you'd figure it out before long. I'm a Cousland. The Last Laurel, they say. Just-'

'I won't.' Anethayín gathered herself. 'I promise. I won't tell. Anyone. Ever.'

The look of relief and gratitude crossing Araris' face was all the payment she'd need and would ever accept. For just a moment he looked healthy, vulnerable, alive. Himself even, she dared to venture, though she knew him not that well.

'And that fucker who murdered your family,' Anethayín spat, 'I'll hand you the knife to gut him when the time comes.'

'Thank you, Anethayín,' he said, silently.

They spent the rest of the night together, until the sun climbed pale on the far horizon.

She, kneeling between his spread legs.

Ready to comfort with a simple touch when his eyes became clouded by the distance of the mind.

All in silence.

* * *

_Tell me what you think. _

_Does it make up for my absence? Partially, at least? Thought not._

_What do you want in the next chapter? Suggestions? Otherwise I'll continue with what I've mapped out._


	15. On the Shores of Despair

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

_After a long, long time I've finally carved out a few hours here and there and was able to complete this chapter in between work and exams. Sorry for the long absence, folks. I hope you've missed me and my story. I'll try to make up for my prolonged absence._

_Things are finally starting to fall into place. The rebellion is about to become a full-blown civil war! Things will move fast and with lots of action._

_Also, please forgive me in advance, for I just finished this chapter and it's already late where I'm from. So, I hope there aren't too many typos. Will edit it in the following days._

_Enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XV **

**On the Shores of Despair**

**.**

**.**

Squinting, Anethayín trailed the curlicues of smoke in front of her face, washed away by a light breeze carrying heralds of the approaching cold.

The spindleweed numbed her sense and everything inside her mouth. Perched on the ox-drawn wagon she could, thankfully, let her heavy head loll from side to side, whichever way it leant best.

When she'd woken up to the croaking of frogs, Anethayín couldn't rightly remember that she'd crawled back into her tent, with enough presence of mind to tuck a blanket up to her cheeks. She couldn't even pinpoint the moment she'd dozed off, no matter how hard she tried. Only that she'd knelt by Araris' side, both of them sharing something which still eluded her grasp.

Araris.

Tristan.

Whatever. Didn't matter anyway.

Names are just that. Names. But some names carried power. When uttered silently in dark streets they provoke emotion of some kind. But there were only a few of those names.

Anethayín shook her head, trying to clear the haze, unsuccessfully. Yet, last night's short conversation with Araris wouldn't leave her alone. Not even two entire spindleweed twigs, with a third nearly done, helped in that regard.

Under the gruff and scarred exterior which he wore so well, and seemed to like to do so in a way, hid just a young, maybe even terrified man. Anethayín had caught glimpses of him, there and then. The pain hurting him every day, on and on, an aching pain which no medicine could sooth for it was of the mind and soul, not the body.

The elven minstrel led out a sigh, smoke following.

A few bells and another twig later, the sun having ridden hard the wheel of time in the sky, they stumbled upon a long convoy trekking through the unruly territory and back to the heart of the rebellion.

Claps were exchanged between Corks, Jan and some comrades they seemed to recognise. Rude jokes hurled this way and that. But no one paid any heed to the dazed elf on one of now many wagons. Much less Araris, whom soldiers gave a wide berth.

**.**

**.**

'We've to do something.'

Rife with the stink of sweat, dug earth and human waste the air pretended to be still. Calmed by the rising sun, the grey sky bruised with colour.

All an illusion. Of peace, cradling them into complacency. A shadow had set over the entire encampment during the last few days. Everything dulled down by the foreboding sense of death looming above them.

Either the King's Blade would chop them to pieces or winter would run its course and slowly freeze them to death. Conversations were only held hushed nowadays, spirits lying broken in the mud. Soldiers and refugees alike walked the camp with hunched shoulders, sagged by their impending end.

Alfstanna looked up at Elya, eyes sunken and rimmed with bags. 'We can't fight nature, Elya.'

Elya shook her head, defiant. 'Something. There must be something. Anything. We cannot end like this.'

'I know.' Alfstanna's response sounded empty. She'd seen too much. Heard too much. Hoped too much. The light in her eyes dwindling. Elya had seen it so very often, that amused spark. Now blunted. Vanished altogether.

Elya grabbed her shoulders. 'Then we must move. Or fight. Whichever it'll be. But not nothing. If we quietly slip away, all would've been for nothing. The lives lost. For nothing.' The dead forever silent, their sacrifice redundant.

Alfstanna grabbed her brow, gaze darting around. 'I know, Elya. There's just nothing I can change. The refugees die in scores each day. Our supplies are nearly empty. But more people arrive each day. We can't even fill the bellies of our proper soldiers.' Her head slumped down.

Elya wouldn't have it. 'Bryland. There's something he must do. More raiding parties to scour for food and supplies. Shelter to wait out winter.'

A sad smile. 'There's nothing able to shelter us from winter, Elya. Only a city could house this many. And none would dare open their gates for us. In fear of Loghain's wrath.'

'Then we fight.'

'Fight?' Alfstanna appeared amused.

'Yes. Fight.'

'Look at us, Elya. We're barely able to stand. All of us. Hunger is eating our bellies up from the inside.'

A lump stuck in her throat and Elya didn't know how to answer. Seeing Alfstanna, this proud noblewoman, her friend, to succumb to despair wrenched her insides even worse than the gnarling hunger.

A messenger barged into the tent, out of breath. He pointed outside. 'M'ladies.' He gasped. 'A convoy. A raiding party just returned.'

Despite the fading strength in their legs both of them jumped up and raced out of the tent.

_Hope. _

What a mad thought.

**.**

**.**

Thinned out into a stretched line, countless wagons and carts rattled by on the narrow road underneath, slicing through the perilous ravine, light slopes on both sides, littered with rocks.

Tharax nervously eyed the line up and down. Took in the meagre defences. The infantrymen looked ready to buckle and fall to their knees, simply out of fatigue and hunger.

What few brothers and sisters of his remained lay flat along the treeline, watching the passing below with eager eyes. Their plan had panned out rather perfectly. They'd driven every picket of the enemy they could find together for the last few days.

Now was the time.

Tharax found his heart trying to beat itself from the cavern of his chest. His left hand shook slightly.

With a deep breath he tried to calm himself.

Their commander gave the sign.

**.**

**.**

Anethayín jumped to her feet at the terrible roar, rising like a thundering wave heading straight for the dark shore. Head still dizzy from the spindleweed. The world spun around her shakily. She nearly fell off the wagon down into the muddied gravel.

Getting a hold of her bodily functions, Anethayín regained control and looked up the slope of the ravine. She froze at the sight.

Javelins zipped through the air, many finding their targets, skewering them like pigs.

Out of the treeline from above a score of horned giants rushed down to meet the exposed convoy, ululating their terrible warcries. Anethayín scrambled to the back of the wagon, as far from the impending clash of iron to come. The ox seemed unperturbed, snorting blissfully.

Banding together, rebel soldiers formed a line right in front of Anethayín's wagon. They held their ground instead of charging up the rocky slope. Shields linked together, swords barred they stemmed against the qunari onslaught.

Just a few paces away, some of the qunari launched themselves into the shield wall of tired humans. They broke through like a battering ram would through a simple wooden door. Massive axes and broadswords flashed and cleaved through armour, flesh and bone. Blood welled, soon covering everything.

Anethayín cowered transfixed at the horrible sight, rebel after rebel falling, bleeding profoundly from deep wounds and gnashes.

A shout. Somewhere farther down the line of fighting and dying men. The qunari seemed to come to a collective halt, perplexed at the sudden resistance they met.

Anethayín spotted the reason. Around a tall, pale haired figure the rebel troops rallied, strengthened by Araris' display of swordsmanship.

As a travelling minstrel, Anethayín had, of course, visited a good few tournaments in her time. Some more prestigious others less so. Yet, in all her travels driving her to the most far-flung corners of Thedas, she'd never witnessed anything alike. And witness she did.

Araris surged forward, batting an incoming blade aside. It happened so fast, it seemed he merely shrugged. With another gesture he cut open a qunari's neck.

Even on top of the treacherous terrain, rocks ready to give out beneath, Araris moved with an uncanny fluidity that appeared inhuman. Anethayín wasn't even sure if her spindleweed-addled mind feigned her things that didn't happen in reality. But she very much doubted that.

With a startling cry the rebel infantry pushed back against the grey-skinned giants hacking them to pieces just a few moments earlier, Araris longsword flickering left and right, dealing out the bittersweet gift of a swift death.

Soon after what few qunari remained fled back into the woods clinging to their lives. The battered rebel soldiers didn't chase after them. It seemed clear to everyone that they wouldn't return for another round.

Albeit fatigued, swords and shields were raised by shaking limbs in a salute. Shouts of victory followed.

Before the sombre knowledge settled that they'd lost many good men and women, of which the rebellion was in dire need if rumours were to be believed.

In the soldiers' eyes around her, Anethayín spied something, a flame rekindled as they gazed upon Araris, surrounded by dead qunari.

.

.

They met Arl Bryland halfway there. Alfstanna marched up to him, with Elya staying behind the two nobles. Their run had long since subsided into a light jog and then further into a quick walk. After all, they first had to make their way down the perilous path of the rock formations towering above the plains like disfigured giants.

'What do you know?' asked Alfstanna in between breaths.

Bryland looked over at her. 'Not more than you, I presume.'

'A convoy?'

'Yes. Too good to be true, isn't it.'

'Seems that way.'

Bryland shrugged. 'I won't complain.'

'Neither shall I.' Throngs of people were streaming to the palisaded edges of the encampment, shouting. 'It seems here we're right.'

Elya hadn't spotted them, at first, but out of nowhere a squad of soldiers, armoured in grey leathers and blackened chain beneath, surrounded them. The famed élites from Highever, no doubt. An undermanned company since Ostagar, named the Mortal Swords of the Laurel. Longswords scabbarded at their hips, they pushed through the mass of peasants pressing in on the newly arrived. Once the gathered picked up on who drove them apart they quickly scrambled to make way.

Bryland gestured an odd pair over. They saluted the arl. 'Report,' he said. 'Which raiding party is this, soldier?'

They looked at each other, then at Bryland. 'All of them, milord,' answered the scrawny fellow.

'All of them? What's your name, soldier?'

'Jan, milord.' He pointed at his compatriot. 'This is Corks.'

Bryland nodded. 'Very well.' He touched one of the Old Guard at the shoulder, whispering, 'Get as many men down here. We need to contain this. Fast.' With a sharp salute the Mortal Sword marched off.

Bryland turned back to the odd pair, Jan and Corks. 'Tell me what happened.'

'Well, milord, our party was stayin' at an inn, you see.' He rubbed his neck. 'To, uh, buy some supplies. Fair 'n square. Met a knight there.' With thin hands he indicated the grim figures forming a shield around them. 'One of 'em.'

'Anyways, on our way back here, we stumbled upon the convoy. Horned Ones had driven them all together.'

'Like cattle,' Corks added.

'Exactly.' Jan sent an annoyed look towards his companion. 'Like cattle. We managed to drive them off and return to camp.' Jan scratches his cheek. 'Milord.'

'We drove the qunari off. Weeks ago,' Elya said.

Both of the soldiers looked at her, confused, for a moment not comprehending who she was. Then it dawned on them, but it seemed their awe knew certain boundaries. Curious, since everyone seemed to stare at her wherever she went, nowadays.

'Stragglers, most likely, milady,' said Corks. ''twas a hasty retreat. Bound to leave someone behind.'

Elya nodded to herself. His statement carried a fair amount of sense. Curiosity still aroused, Elya asked, 'How many were there? Of the qunari that is.'

''Bout two dozen of 'em, milady.'

A dumbfounded silence settled over Bryland, Alfstanna and Elya at the deadpan answer. Bryland recovered first. 'You managed to drive them off?'

Jan looked again at Corks, as if to seek help. 'Indeed, milord. As I said.'

'How?'

'That Old Guard fellow we met at the inn, milord.'

'What of him?'

'He killed 'em horned beasts, milord.' Jan practically beamed, showing a row of crooked teeth.

'Two dozens of them?'

'Nah, milord. Just a bunch of them. The rest fled into the woods. Didn't come back again, either.'

Bryland threw Alfstanna a strange look, it seemed a silent conversation passed between them. One Elya wasn't privy to.

'We would like to meet this knight,' said Alfstanna.

'Of course, milady.' Jan slapped his burly comrade on the chest. Corks turned around, cupped his mouth and roared, 'Ser Tristan!'

But the man could nowhere be found. Even after bells of searching.

He'd vanished like a spectre from the Fade.

It perplexed the two soldiers beyond compare.

**.**

**.**

Araris had watched and listened. Sitting at the fire, stuffing a bowl of warm stew in his mouth, he faked wariness. Painting the image of the tired wanderer, people quickly acknowledged him as nothing of consequence.

It helped Araris absorb. The situation of the rebellion. The mood of the soldiers gathered round and the mewling refugees. The mood of _his_ people. A spirit chafed away by cruelty and hunger, nearly broken. One more blow then legs would give out and they'd be ready to submit to the will of whoever came along and demanded it.

But when he let his gaze wander, Araris understood. None of them would survive winter. Either their limbs would blacken and fall off or famish would claim them, slowly escorting them past death's gate.

Wherever he looked, it mattered not, for he spied no future. No strand of a larger web promising life beyond the next few weeks, before harsh winds would drive the chill into their bones and snowflakes like needles onto their skin.

Where no hope resides there must hope be manufactured. Else the rebellion is already lost as a footnote in the annals of history, ready to be picked apart by mediocre historians and to continue this struggle would be unnecessary and doom all of them to a most violent death. Especially Araris and his fellow noblemen and women would no doubt be crucified and put on display on Denerim's walls. Perfect targets for all the motherless urchins to throw stones at them and laugh at their cries.

_Enough is enough. _

His decision made for him by the unfathomable curls of destiny, he set out, leaving camp and entering the thickly treed surroundings at the edge.

Araris paused for a few heartbeats, head cocked, straining his ears for movement in the undergrowth. Satisfied by the absence of human or otherwise sentient presence, Araris sat down on a patch of dirt, cross-legged.

He thrust nine wooden sticks of varied length into the ground, building a rough crescent in front of him. From a pouch, Araris pulled forth a long band of gut. Starting with the leftmost stick, he wrapped the band around, secured it tight with a knot. The rest followed until he tied another knot around the rightmost stick, an intricate web spun in between.

Palms resting on his knees, Araris closed his eyes and shut out the world surrounding him.

He let go his icy grip and the barriers inside melted, glaciers metamorphosing into gushing currents, flooding outwards.

Fuelled by the taste of desperation and loss around him and the embers of rage ready to turn into an erratic fire, Araris opened himself to the Fade.

His body sagged.

His mind wandered other planes than this one.

**.**

**.**

Something alien approached.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers stopped in his work, sniffed the air. A foreign odour travelled the currents of today's gentle breeze, caressing the sea of grass at their feet. The movement tickled their scaled calves.

With a dozen of slitted reptile eyes, incandescent like a cat's in the dark, the seventh of the Che'ell brothers stared into the distance.

Underneath the sickly green eye blazing down from the bloated grey sky and far beyond an enormous basin filled with clear, black water towered spirals and spears of shimmering crystal. Civilisation. A city of his people.

He couldn't bear to hold his gaze on the grand testament it presented so boldly.

Hacking away at thick trunks, behind him, with massive axes, were his eight brethren. Low grunts and the sound of splitting wood filled the vicinity.

Life was good enough for him. He and his family didn't need cities carved from crystal, marble and glass to feel appreciated and live life to its fullest potential. They were content, all of them with what they had.

But his people weren't. They were greedy and brutal, took what they needed and eroded precious art wherever they went. And thus rose twisted pillars of rancid smoke now above the shining city far away. The reflections it once returned now dulled and fractured by broken and disfigured crystal.

All nine of the Che'ell brothers had fought in wars beyond count. Then they'd decided, as one, against it. But it seemed war and death followed them wherever they tried to flee. Their lives never quite as quiet as they dared to hope.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers felt his family members approach his side, forming a line at the end of the lightly treed slope before the black lake.

'What is it, brother?' asked the second.

Saddened, he said, 'War claims us again, it seems.'

Together they calmly watched a grotesque apparition rise out of the disturbing lake, pale hair matted against gnarled skin.

The eldest of the Che'ell brothers stepped forward, hefting his massive double-edged axe in his with scars crisscrossed, thickly muscled arms. The ghastly apparition didn't even reach his hips, coming forward with wonky steps.

It spoke, in a tongue none of them understood. But the seventh of the brothers believed it to be similar to how the winged lizard-gods in the sky communicated with each other. A language older than time itself, some argued. How that'd be possible, he never comprehended.

'Be gone, Fadewalker!' The eldest raised his axe high above his scaled head, which bore a silvered patina like the rest of him, the sign of age.

Belying his earlier shakiness, the apparition now acted surely, with grace and liquid elegance none of the nine brothers could ever hope to achieve.

Thus the Che'ell brethren were blinded, bound and chained to a fate not their own and claimed by a war waged between people they'd never met.

It saddened the seventh of them beyond compare.

**.**

**.**

Elya sat on her cot, fur blankets wrapped about her. Her mind emptied by the fatigue of tending to wounded men and women for another day. The knowledge bearing down on her slumped shoulders that it'd begin tomorrow anew.

But, at least, they'd survive for a bit longer. Not in luxury or in comfort or anything even approaching such a state. But, they'd survive, nonetheless. A spark of hope had rustled through the camp and stirred the dying embers.

But carried along by this faint current was something else entirely. Elya felt it, though unsure of its exact nature and origin.

Cold it trickled down her back and made her grip her blankets tighter and hug them against her heaving chest. Whatever had arrived in the encampment, nothing good would come of it. Elya would've to raise her suspicious during the next council meeting. Or at least to Alfstanna in person.

A wince shuddered through her. Heart pumping rapidly, all of a sudden.

Elya perceived a sorcerous tug where none should've been. No aura a moment before. Impossible. She should've sensed something. A sliver, a vibration. The power grew, a puddle of cool water. A patch of icy blackness, like the void between the stars. Remote, cold and freezing to the touch.

Elya yelped. Her nerves on fire, she closed her eyes shut. To no avail, stars exploded behind them, accompanied by twinges of pain wrecking her sapped body.

There, just on the edge of the camp. A warped pool of energy like she'd never felt before. A low whine died in her throat. Elya heaved for air, which grew increasingly difficult.

The aura blossomed, revealing its frightening potential to Elya. The blackness curled up in cold waves and the Veil tore with the sound of a thunderclap in her mind. Demonic whispers seeped out of the wound. Attacked her, charmed her, soothed her.

Elya screamed.

A poor defence. But the only she had left.

Alfstanna found her shortly after curled into a shivering ball, backed up against the corner, a feral fire burning in her eyes like the fever of madness.

**.**

**.**

_Any questions? Comments? You know how to reach me._

_Thanks for reading!_


	16. Witness The Forgotten

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

_Thank you all for reading, I truly feel honoured by your presence and the fact that you deem my story worth your time._

_I especially want to thank Rattletrap, Serithus, Ironman088 and FrostLight for reviewing the last chapter and for helping me break my personal "record" of three reviews for a single chapter by one. Thank you very much, guys! __I love you all!_

_Here, have the longest chapter I've ever written for this story, with the first full-scale battle._

_Enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XVI **

**Witness The Forgotten**

**.**

**.**

He'd sniffed them out.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers was good at finding things lost and led astray. Even in this strange place. He always had been, his senses sharpened keener than the rest of his brothers, who followed but a few paces behind, a bit clumsier to his hearing, but nothing that would give them away too soon.

The insentient wildlife, crawling through the undergrowth and climbing along the balding trees – which were puny in compare to what he understood to be trees – were a good indicator. Undisturbed and unmolested by the Che'ell brothers' presence.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers indicated to his family members to prepare themselves for battle.

For a moment, a pang of sorrow flitted through him, at the notion that they'd been reduced to blunt tools in the hands of others, once more, but then the pure and blinding influence of Him cleansed all stray thoughts from his mind and filled them with violence instead.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers found a long-lost joy in these images rekindled. Ready to be the artist, the guiding hand committing these deeds to the canvas of reality.

Ready to deal death.

Once more.

**.**

**.**

No one walked the muddied tracks. Still asleep, the camp radiated a calming silence. Tents were zipped close and fires had long since died. A cold resonated in the fresh morning air, cutting right through cloth and seeping into bone. The day violently dawned to the south.

Anethayín wandered through camp without aim or goal. She needed her body to move so that her mind could too escape her surroundings. The preparation of war, all around. The desperation, the shallow continuation of life clouded by fear.

In the past, she'd never partaken in such things. A war. How outrageous and not at all a place for a travelling minstrel to be around. But someone had to catch these lost souls and weave them into the fabric of history, preventing them to fade with the passing of time. This much, she could do for them. Be a silent witness, standing at the edge, far removed from the picture, yet still pained by the atrocious happenings around her.

Images, of qunari broadswords and heavy-set, double-edged axes splitting human flesh open, flashed before her eyes. She'd went along the line of the dead after the battle had ended, staring at each of them, numbed. Etching their features into her memory. Their last response as they greeted death. But Anethayín found nothing. No knowledge to be embraced by this or that god, no fearlessness hardening their expression into one final defiance, as the great philosophers of this age proclaimed to have discovered.

Anethayín spied only ruin and death. No grand, overarching statement of honour or heroism, nothing valiant. Merely blood-soaked dirt spilled with faeces and littered with corpses already cold and stiff, as meaningless as that. Nothing more to it. A sombre discovery which left her rattled.

When walking besides the dead, she'd found a familiar face. Soft features, marked still by puberty and further marred by a broken nose. A deep fissure carved diagonally through his face, he stared at her with one eye, the other destroyed by the slash. And Anethayín couldn't bring herself to hate him for what he tried to do to her any longer. Not whilst he lay there, robbed of life, accusing her with his youthful appearance. She'd averted her gaze.

Unconsciously, she arrived at the palisaded edge of the massive encampment, having passed through the chaotic settlement of thousands of refugees, cowering in the shadow of looming stone and protected by a doomed cause.

Hood obscuring the face, a lone figure, huddled into a dark woollen cloak, stood on the palisades, left alone by soldiers on watch duty. The figure stared southward, seemingly basking in the rising sun. Something in his posture gave Araris away, Anethayín couldn't pinpoint it exactly, though.

Anethayín went to his side, not even coming up to his shoulders, the odd pair watched in silence the dawning of another day of labour-intensiveness for the rebellion and all united under its banner, willingly or unwillingly.

Without acknowledging her presence, he spoke, 'I'll be leaving soon.'

Anethayín's gaze snapped at Araris. 'Leaving?'

'Yes.' He paused. 'A rider arrived late last night.'

'Bearing what news?'

Araris shifted around. 'Arl Wulff is in desperate need of assistance. Down there.' He nodded towards the sunrise. 'In West Hills. Reports say the region is already crawling with Darkspawn.'

An unpleasant sensation travelled down her spine, sending shivers through her body at the mere mentioning of the blighted creatures.

'Darkspawn?' Anethayín asked, hesitant. 'I cannot-'

'I know.' Araris cut her off. 'You do not have to come. I understand.'

They fell back into a laden silence. Anethayín looked down, retreating to herself. 'When will you be off?'

'Come the next morrow. A contingent of men shall leave and travel south to the arl's aid.'

Anethayín looked over her shoulder, watching the squatting stone giants, malformed and gnarled, looming high above. One of them the very heart of the rebellion, banners surrounding a sun-bleached pavilion, flags idle in the still morning air.

'How is it you know of this, anyway?'

Anethayín heard him shrug underneath his woollen traveling cloak. 'I listen. Such a camp, as large as this. It practically breathes rumours and half-truths. Just a matter of filtering out the truth.' He gestured back at the camp. 'All this is, is a breeding ground for gossip that spreads faster than a plague.'

Anethayín snorted a laugh. 'When will you return?'

Araris grew still. 'I do not know. But I _will_.' He looked at her, eyes intense underneath his hood. 'I promise you that much.'

A frail smile taunted Anethayín's skin for a moment.

'Good.'

**.**

**.**

Over trampled paths and the occasional paved cobblestone road they hiked, cutting through the heart of the Bannorn. Southwards, in the general direction of Lothering. Though, if the scouts were to be believed, they'd sooner make contact with Darkspawn troops scouring and ravaging the lands than reach the village.

Providing auxiliary support to the infantry, attached to a wing of light cavalry, Araris rode at the flank of the eight hundred men strong battalion, divided into eight companies. Should the sudden need arise, the cavalry was intended to function as a rapid response unit, taking the pressure off where it proved too much to bear.

None of the cavalrymen had yet dared to approach him. Either deterred by his brutish appearance or the silverite brooch, holding his cloak together. Not even the middle-aged officer in charge of the wing, he appeared rather unsure about how to handle having a Mortal Sword attached to his unit.

Up until now the moniker had only resulted in hardly veiled awe and respect, which suited Araris just fine. Simply because it meant that they left him alone, to contemplate his future steps in heavy silence. Even though the rest of the wing grew increasingly tense, the longer the absence of good-natured chatter lasted.

Right now, Araris tried to solve a trickier puzzle than what would come of his future and that of the rebellion. Namely, the woman riding in front of them, clad in a beige leather coat, a shawl wrapped about her slender neck.

Araris ushered Kelpie forward with a nudge, came to halt right next to the woman. Araris glanced at her. She looked ill. Her skin was of pallid colour, glistening with a sheen of sweat, despite the cool temperatures sending every healthy human being scrambling for the cover of blankets, cloaks and fur.

'Are you all right, my lady?' asked Araris.

Gasping, she jumped, ostensively unaware of his presence up until now, and nearly lost control over her mount. 'Maker's mercy!' cried she.

Heads turn in their direction. To this, she didn't prove oblivious. Quietly, she reigned her horse in and squirmed to right herself in the saddle again. Then, she looked back over at Araris with bleary eyes. As if she'd slept the entire time and just awoke from a bad dream.

'I'm alright,' she said, clipped.

'You do not look the part. If I might say so.'

She sighed. 'If you must.'

'What is your name, anyway?'

The woman frowned and looked at him strangely. 'Elya.'

'So, _you're_ the talk of the entire camp.'

She sighed again. 'I guess I am.'

'Not used to the feeling?'

The sorceress snorted. 'Maker. No. Where I come from, attention like that usually ends unwell.'

'I've heard of the templar's harshness these days. Arl Bryland did well in sheltering you from their reach.'

'Because I am useful. You mean.' Her tone turned hollow. 'For now.'

'No. Because I believe everyone has a right to be free, Lady Elya. To pursue the heart's desires in any which way they see fit. And you've been shackled for all your life. It would be cold-hearted to throw you at the templars' feet. Where you would find anything but mercy. So, no. Not _only_ because you are useful. But because you are human, just like me.'

Elya laughed a little, sadly, but Araris saw her eyes watering and understood. 'Believe me, we're very different. You and I.'

Araris hid a smile at the irony of her statement. 'Forgive me,' she added, 'I've been caught up with . . . recent developments. They're rather, uh, dull, I'd assume. But I never asked your name, good ser.'

'Tristan.' He tapped the silverite sword with a laurel wreath as its guard. Elya's eyes cleared with recognition. 'Of the Laurel.'

'A Mortal Sword. But I thought you all stayed in camp.'

Araris looked about, shrugging. 'I just arrived recently. I've been in Orlais for quite some time. At the behest of Teyrn Cousland.' Araris forced himself through the aching in his chest, trying to climb upward, settle and build a knot, constricting his throat. 'The late teyrn, that is.'

Elya nodded, watching him with a gentle expression. Then something else blossomed on her features. 'Tristan, you said? You are the knight who saved the supply convoy?'

Played into a corner, all on his own. _Well done._ Outwardly, Araris replied, composed, 'I am he, indeed.'

'You were nowhere to be found when the convoy arrived.'

'I was tired. And full of grime. Just wanted to catch some sleep,' Araris lied, faking the calmness in his voice.

'Arl Bryland and Bann Alfstanna would surely like to speak with you upon our return.'

'I'm sure they would.' Again, the irony was lost on Elya, for she appeared satisfied by his curt answer. If she knew who she was riding next to, well, she'd probably have a fit. That wouldn't do, not at all.

The sorceress tilted her head at him, fiddling with her shawl, whilst scrutinising him. 'I didn't know Orlais had seen such a drastic change in public appearance.'

Araris smiled wryly. 'Believe me. It hasn't. I just stopped caring about it some time ago.'

Horns blared at the front of the battalion. The eight companies routinely spread out and began setting up camp for the night. Latrines were dug, tents drawn up and torches and braziers lit.

The cavalry wing, veering left behind them, Elya glanced over at Araris, rubbed her neck and averted her gaze. 'You could join me tonight. For, ah, a meal that is. I'd love to hear more about Orlais.' She nodded over her shoulder. 'You seem to make the nervous, anyway.'

'That I do. And I could stand a decent meal.' Playfully, he added, full well knowing the answer already, 'I heard you magi can conjure up the most lavish of meals. Entire banquets even.'

Elya rode off, laughing, and said, 'You'll have to find out.'

**.**

**.**

Hunched down amidst the undergrowth and rock, Tharax nibbled at a hard stripe of dried meat. Desperately trying to provide his weary body with much needed nutrition and energy.

Bandaged, the slash on his brow still pulsed with searing pain from time to time. Blinking it away seemed to work by now, quite well, in fact, considering the circumstances. He'd been lucky to escape with his life and eye intact. He wouldn't be here without Quira and Loorax hauling him back from the thick of the fighting as he bled profoundly from the wound on his head.

He'd overreached, fatally so, when facing the lone swordsman who'd turned the tide of the entire ambush. So fast, faster than the eye could track. And he'd been on the ground, vision tinted red by his own blood, streaming down. What he'd viewed as boldness and courage during the heat of the moment, blood rushing by his ears, humming inside his head, roaring like the clash of steel, Tharax now viewed as the idiotic blindness striding hand in hand with the feeling of immortality possessed by all unblooded warriors, the hotness of shame now welling up in his chest. That surety of one's own superiority, which he'd been robbed of in a brutal way, coming face to face with his end. He hated himself for that fact that he'd ever possessed it.

There were only seven of them left. Quira and Loorax refilled water-skins at a gurgling stream nearby. Their ranking officer, Scarskin, named after the map of gnarled scar tissue covering his entire body like tattoos, a testament to battles past and his ability to live through them to tell about it around the nightly fires. He paced around, appearing agitated and concerned all the same.

A certain unrest had settled over the surviving veterans. Something in the lone swordsman's display had rattled them to the core, Tharax didn't rightly understand how or why exactly. But it was palpable. None of them ever rested easy, eyes darting around from side to side, seemingly expecting an ambush every second, as if the lone swordsman would jump out from beneath the undergrowth, longsword flashing.

Tharax stuffed away the dwindling remains of his food supply. Shouldering his grilled iron shield with one arm, Tharax secured the belt around his narrow waist, broadsword tucked away safely, with the other.

Air moved.

Everybody froze, looked up, unsettled.

Then everything exploded into movement.

From every direction, terrifying creatures unlike he'd ever seen or heard about in the wildest of tales broke through the undergrowth. Trees burst into a shower of splinters as the massive creatures shrugged through them. Even the smallest of them easily looked down upon any qunari. Fully upright they towered twice as high as any of his comrades.

Powerful looking scaled legs propelled them forward with a speed and efficacy which belied their muscled frame. Multi-layered scales formed a carapace, armouring their torso, which bore misshapen cataract-like patterns, darkly hued in most cases, but for one of the creatures, which seemed ghostly, as if hewn from sun-bleached mica. The greyish skin underneath resembled hardened leather, wrinkled and scarred.

Lips peeled back to reveal jagged rows of fangs, each one dagger-long. As one, the fiends loosened a cry that struck Tharax with pain, for the sound it voiced was beyond his range of hearing, yet it burst in Tharax's skull with such ferocity that blood was driven from nostrils, eyes and ears.

Enormous axes, as long as a qunari stood tall, if not longer even, cleaved his comrades and friends into meaty bits and pieces without meeting any resistance.

Blood rose like a morning mist, covering everything. Cries of terror vibrated through the crisp forest air.

Tharax fled.

**.**

**.**

Elya let out a content sigh.

Leaning back, Tristan patted his stomach. 'Well, it wasn't a banquet, per say. But nice enough. I guess.'

'Oh, will you shut up. That's the best stew you'll get for leagues.' She snorted a laugh. 'It's the damned best I had for a long time.' Elya raised her glass. 'And that. I'd prefer water, but, at least, it keeps you warm.'

Tristan sipped his spiced red wine. Audibly sloshing the liquid around inside his mouth, lips pursed. Elya arched her brow at him, bemused. The knight just stared back at her with the same expression. 'What?'

'Nothing.'

'O, really. Why is it that whenever I've hear a woman say, "Nothing." It's usually something.' Scratching the fair stubble of his growing beard, he said, 'So, what is it?'

Elya leaned back, lips pressed together, to contain the smile. 'The wine, when you. I don't know what. You looked ostentatious.'

'Hah! I blame the Orlesians.' He cocked his head. 'But, they do produce rather excellent vintage. One has to grant them as much.'

The wine tasted sourer, for some reason. 'And pompous, obese aristocrats doing nothing but philosophising from within their white marble halls, while they haven't seen anything beyond their palatial homes.' Maybe, after what Tristan had told her of Orlesian machinations and the Game, her interest and the grandeur the empire outwardly exuded faded. Stories just never seemed to hold up to the truth. People would rather listen to lies which sounded good than face the ugliness which really hid underneath layers and webs of deceit.

'Not all of them. There are some worth their salt. Even in Orlais.'

Elya drummed on the table top with her fingers. 'But in contrast to all those grand figures of the past. Even the recent past. King Maric. Or longer. Emperor Drakon. Ser Aveline. Calenhad. The world is just becoming a bad place. All under the leadership of fools ruled by their greed and lust.'

Tristan seized her up with his gaze, arms crossed. 'There's a problem with your assumption, Elya. One, that probably stems from the fact that, most of history you know, you've ascertained by reading books. But by then, judgement has already been made. And there are thousands of lords and ladies, kings and queens, who've been deliberately disregarded by history. Bland rulers who simply did their best and tried to keep peace between their lands and the next. Yet, you only read about the bold and daring. Of great deeds done and victories being achieved. But never of those who've lost, those who mightn't even have started this particular feud. They just weren't worthy of the attention of scholars and historians. What, after all, have they achieved, but lost?'

Elya chewed on her lip, unconsciously brought the glass to her lips. 'I did read a lot of books,' she said, slowly.

Mouth set in a thin line, Tristan watched her, before saying, 'And, I'm sure, even those accessible to your libraries were carefully chosen.'

'Not only that.'

'What do you mean?'

Elya pinched her nose. 'You see, mages are taken very young to the Circles. Most of us don't even remember if we had a family. When we get older and do not . . . misbehave . . . the templars might allow us to contact our families.' She gulped. 'But by then, they've already moved on, forgot their own children and that they ever existed. We are like black sheep, though much blacker by far. Better to have a child with sadistic kinks than one with sorcerous potential.' Elya had to stop, else something uncomfortable might well up and she'd fall prey to demonic influence when she stalked the Fade in her dreams again. Emotional upheaval attracted them like a moth to the flame.

'You were allowed to contact your family?' Tristan asked.

'Yes. Allowed. But I did not.'

'Why not?' He looked genuinely perplexed, even with what she'd told him just now.

'I am of noble birth. Originally from Kirkwall. That's even worse. To be of noble birth and a mage, I mean. Elya Charlotte Amell. Doesn't it sound grand?' Elya heaved a sigh, cursing the templars for leashing her to this cage of world, a child in an adult's body. Without friends, family and loved ones. Curse them. All of them.

'All that has happened to me. I blame them for it. Even my biased view of the world.'

'Nonetheless.' Tristan continued, tonality different. 'You're far more knowledgeable than the average citizen, Elya.'

'What's that know?' She tried a smirk. 'Is the worldly-wise knight trying to cheer me up or patronise me?'

'Neither.' Tristan held her gaze, serious. 'The simple fact, Elya, that you question. It tells me that your intelligence surpasses, well, most.'

'So! You _are_ trying to cheer me up. How flattering.' Elya had no idea why she said all these things out loud. She just felt like it, it seemed. Maybe it was the wine, making her tipsy. She'd had three glasses by now, after all.

Tristan smiled at her, reserved. 'My charm. I can't help it. It would swoon the empress of Orlais, surely.'

Wine was explosively forced out of her nostrils, showering the table and her dining partner in spiced red wine already well on its way down her throat. Elya didn't know if she should rather concentrate on coughing or laughing. In the end, she slumped against the table, combining both into a, undoubtedly, odd and hysterical performance. That is, until the coughing really took over and wrecked her frame.

Tristan rose, perched her a bit more upright and clapped her on the back. It helped. Marginally.

After a score of heartbeats, blood climbing into her buzzing head, Elya recovered, found Tristan close, hand still resting on her back. She looked away, found sudden interest in the meagre scraps of food left on the table. 'You know,' she said, 'the templars never allowed us to, uh.' She coughed again, hotness flushed her face. Again, the wine, most certainly. 'They, uh, never allowed us . . .'

'To swoon each other?' supplied Tristan.

'Yes.' She chuckled, nervous.

'Well, now that you've escaped their grasp, there'll no doubt be lots of swooning directed at you, Elya.'

She harrumphed. 'You think?' Her voices sounded raw.

'Sure. Just don't rush it.' Did he just wink at her? No. Stupid alcohol, she'd forswear that stuff. A hardened knight, standing one head taller than her, with a haircut more appropriate among the Avvar tribes doesn't wink. Ever. Why then, by the Maker's blessing, did she lean closer to him?

Bells rang. Broke the moment, the tension. Tristan whipped back, eyes hardening so fast it frightened Elya. Opening the tent's flaps, he peered outside.

A messenger sprinted towards them. Scouts of Arl Wulff had been sighted. The darkspawn caught up with the arl of West Hills and his people.

He'd stayed behind with a troop of voluntary militiamen, allowing the elderly, women and children to escape. Throngs of ragged folk gathered at the edges of camp, like lost lambs, dazed.

The arl was only a few bells' worth of time behind. So was the Darkspawn horde chasing him.

Tristan nodded at her and left.

There'd been a strange glint in his eyes, reinforcing the indwelling intenseness.

**.**

**.**

They knew.

The crows circling high above, crying out their hunger, knew.

The hamlet was ablaze, off in the distance.

Leading towards it, upon the outskirts of barren fields, dried and blackened wheat lying dead around them, they finally confronted the darkspawn.

Like an ill omen, the day dawned in a cacophony of blood to the east, the rising star blocked by thick smoke, deadened grass rustling under a steady breeze, cries of horror reached them from afar.

The eight companies had formed up with a core of regular infantry, on both ends flanked by heavies to keep the pressure off the centre. Light skirmishers loosely stood before the arrayed soldiers and two entire companies hung back, ready to respond where need be.

Three cavalry wings, Araris amongst them, waited off to the left and slightly behind, on a flat hillock, providing them an overview of the Blight-tainted territory.

At the front, Araris could make out three figures talking amongst each other, no doubt a discussion about how to proceed. Two commanders and the distinct figure of the sorceress, Elya, staring at the flames devouring the hamlet. Wooden buildings buckled and folded in on themselves.

A roar erupted from within the fiery hell. At a shouted command, the hind ranks of the rebel formation shifted, hundreds of feet thumping, motions synchronised. Arrows swished out of quivers, were notched and drawn back.

A roar. But one laced with desperation.

Araris squinted against the rising pillars of smoke and suddenly his eyes widened, heart hammering. With an outcry, he nudged Kelpie into a thunderous gallop, screaming at the cavalry wings to follow. He didn't know if they did.

Racing by the drawn-out formation of cold steel and rebel will, Araris screamed from the top of his lungs, 'Stop!' Everyone turned to gape at him, then he was past, speeding straight towards the hamlet and the charred and blackened figures stumbling out of it, coughing violently, whilst half crawling, half running at the same time.

With the wind turning, the smell of human innards, burnt and seared flesh as well as the horrendous stench emitted by the darkspawn assaulted his nose. Bile rose up in Araris' throat. Closer, the heat of the raging inferno prompted pearls of sweat to travel down his forehead. Araris rode by the hastily retreating militia, their resolve in ruin just like the hamlet behind them, they fled out of the village, shuddering in its final death throes.

Last one to be out, Araris spotted a bear of a man, holding off an outwards seething mass of hurlocks and genlocks. He swung a massive warhammer, squashing to gory pulp multiple of the blighted fiends at a time. Covering his back and keeping his flanks clear was a squad of heavily armoured soldiers, knights, all of them wounded to some extent, their plate armour slick with blood, they wavered on their feet, but held on, clinging to a deeply buried resolve.

Araris reined Kelpie in, and before she even came to a full halt, he swung out of the saddle, drawing his longsword in one smooth motion.

Arl Gallagher Wulff swung his warhammer in a wide arc and the darkspawn creatures not crushed flinched back. Araris stepped in and grabbed the arl's harness, hauling him back. 'Back! You fool! Back!' he roared and pushed the massive man away, turning around, Araris met the gushing wave of ghoulish darkspawn. Unlatching the barriers, he released all the pools of deep-etched hatred, pouring out of the very depths of his being, Araris retreated one calm step at a time, elated by the thrill of death, heart racing. The twisted creatures launched themselves at him from left and right. Araris' blade blurred, deflecting and slashing, riposting. A snarl on his lips, he held the horde back.

They'd nearly managed to surround him, now outside the narrow path leading out of the hamlet, the darkspawn poured out like a torrential river through a broken dam. Longsword painting images and trails of blood, left and right, Araris continued to retreat back, hard pressed to keep up with the growling mass of foul fiends.

A guttural shout from behind him. Araris was done for, he realised that. A hurlock slumped against him, arrow jutting out of its throat, it gurgled its final breath. At full gallop, the three cavalry wings parted around Araris and crashed into the darkspawn with a scream, the enemy failing to realise their impending doom of being trampled to bony bits. Araris swiftly dispatched the stunned darkspawn around him with precise slashes.

A single rider approached, Kelpie's reigns in hand, beckoning and shouting at Araris. Behind him, the cavalry wings veered around. Araris swung into the saddle, riding back, soon joined by battered and bloodied cavalrymen, faces hard. Arl Wulff's militiamen had already reached the safety of the rebel lines. Araris gestured the riders on, and they accelerated, galloping past the silent wall of rebel steel.

Araris slowed to a canter, and stopped at the front of the formation, his gaze glancing over the first few rows, along the slightly curved line. Every pair of eyes was fixated on him, without compromise. Arl Gallagher Wulff and his squad of knights stood among them. In the front line, the mad bastard. Barely veiled, recognition shone in the elderly arl's piercing eyes. He nodded at Araris, mouth taunted into a grim line. Elya stood beside the man, looking up at him with wide eyes.

Handing the reigns of his mound to a skirmisher, Araris feet thumped onto the fields of dead crop. He joined the front ranks, which parted willingly. Tip of his sword pointed down, tucked into the once fertile earth, he waited.

A shout emerged from somewhere, 'Draw!' Hundreds of bows creaked behind him. With a swoosh, a rain of death descended down upon the vile beasts, by now swarming unhindered out of the village in waves, causing many to fall, littered with arrows. Yet, the bulk of the horde continued on, howling for blood. Iron-frame crossbows loaded, the loosely arrayed skirmishers in front unleashed a hail of armour-piercing bolts, then retreated back behind the infantry formation, having wreaked havoc.

After a moment Araris saw Elya stepping forward a few paces. Give the woman credit, he thought. There she stood, just a few hundred feet in front of the roaring horde, thundering towards her. By now details could be made out among the beasts. Araris stared at the three massive frames, ogres, hulking between countless hurlocks and genlocks.

Elya raised her hands out to her sides. A band of golden-green arcs spanned between her fingertips, erratically zipped forward, growing in width as they raced towards the darkspawn. The spell scythed into the horde, charring and disintegrating them into embers of glowing ash. To the sides, where the spell hadn't the same amount of power, blood-trailing chunks were sent hurtling in every direction. When the magical wisps faded, countless bits of darkspawn covered scorched earth. An ogre, one side shredded into pieces, half its face torn off, tumbled forward a few heavy steps before collapsing with a drawn-out moan.

Another bellow, this time coming from Arl Wulff, Araris was sure of it. 'Swords!' Eight hundred swords were drawn out of their scabbards, shields locked, creating a deafening noise. As one the rebel soldiers marched forward with small, coordinated steps.

Suddenly, an anxious scream tore through the air; Elya: 'Emissary!'

A writhing, onyx-coloured fog erupted from the horde's ranks, ascending high towards the sky. Whiffs of blood red quivered around wildly within. Growing, the fog rolled down towards the rebel formation. As the chaotic sorcery descended, fingers of golden fire rose upward to greet them, the apostate sorceress attempting to ward off the emissary's spell.

She couldn't manage all.

Where the remaining onyx waves engulfed screaming infantrymen, Araris watched as a midnight flash swallowed the hapless men and women, followed by a thump that thundered through the ground, shaking terribly. After the flash dissipated they lay in rotting heaps, mown down like the stalks of grain at their feet, bloated and twisted.

A heartbeat later blighted creatures and men clashed. The Fereldan soldiers, men and women loyal to his cause, to his family, were able to stay in formation, stemming against the pressing darkspawn tide. Like droplets of water splashing on hot stone, their discipline and trust into the soldier by their side held off the darkspawn's attack, repelled it time and time again. Whenever one of their own would be injured, his comrades behind, would drag him back to the rear lines and take the wounded's place.

But, as the ogres finally reached the frontline, the steadfast walls of steel were ripped apart with wild abandon. The massive beasts managed to barge through tight-knit formations, creating disarray and panic, flinging soldiers this way and that with their massive hands. Araris could do nothing but watch as men and women lost every ounce of discipline, breaking rank, meeting their end at darkspawn blades. His longsword swirling left and right, he cut down every darkspawn that came near him, wading forward through the seemingly endless stream that had broken the squad nearest to him, scattering them.

Accelerating from a light jog to a full out run, Araris charged the rampaging ogre before him. The horned beast roared at him, foul spittle flying like projectiles. It took a swing at him, which would've broken his spine and many other bones. Araris rolled underneath it, coming up swinging, hitting the underside of the ogre's arm with the tip of his blade, splitting the leathery skin open bone-deep. It shrieked, flinching back.

Fist closed, it tried to squish him to paste. Araris pirouetted out of its reach and with three long strides ducked underneath its squat legs. Longsword whirling, left low, right high, Araris severed muscle and tendon in the ogre's legs. It collapsed, unable to balance its weight on two, crippled legs. It flailed around, helplessly. Araris climbed on its gnarled back, drove the tip of his blade into the base of its neck, killing it instantaneously.

Once more, a thump rocketed through the ground, shaking Araris off balance, down from the massive beast's back. A genlock ran towards him, dagger held high over its ugly head. Araris regained his footing within the last possible moment, able to deflect the darkspawn's blade. Its momentum carrying the genlock forward, and the nobleman sliced open the beast's neck in one fluid motion.

'Araris! Here!' His head swirled around trying to identify the speaker, he barely recognized Gallagher Wulff. The arl of West Hills and what remained of his knight entourage held slightly heightened ground upon a small hill, repelling the darkspawn's assaults. Araris started towards the hill, but movement to his left stopped him. Twirling around, he brought his longsword up in a defensive stance. Pain laced through his arms as his blade was flung away by a crude waraxe, his fingers losing contact. But the weapon's immense impetus carried the hurlock with it, giving Araris a chance. He dashed forward; drawing his dragon-tooth dagger. He tackled the creature to the ground, embedding the curved blade within the hurlock's eye socket, twisting the blade.

When he looked up from his crouched position, inelegantly perched upon the dead creature, he spotted a rather odd looking darkspawn, twenty paces away. Bones covered the creature's body like jewellery, fresh flesh clinging to some. The repellant creature stood within a pool of blood, the surrounding ground littered with broken and mangled bodies. It bent down, dipping its stubby, malformed fingers into the blood. But rather than dripping down, the liquid started to swirl around its hands in arcane circle-like patterns.

_The emissary._ Its dark aura tingled Araris' senses.

He thought he heard someone cry out his name from behind. Getting up, Araris sprinted towards the darkspawn sorcerer. The emissary must've noticed, its head rearing round to look at him, the grotesque sneer painted upon its face growing even further, exposing black, needle-thin teeth. Extending one arm, it sent a blob of blood into his direction. Araris let himself fall, trying to dodge the magical bolt, though he saw that there was not enough time.

Unexpectedly, a web of curling blue magery appeared in front of him, fending off the emissary's spell, dissipating it with a hiss. The creature's head snapped around, peering at someone, eyes glowing. Araris followed its gaze and discovered Elya. Her face covered in blood due to a long gash over her brow, bend down to her knees, she panted heavily, her coat torn and smeared with blood.

The sorceress weakly pointed a trembling hand towards the abhorrent creature. Flickering bands of fire, weak in strength and colour, raced towards the darkspawn wizard, melting the skin off of a dozen darkspawn hurlocks and genlocks on its way. With a scoff, the emissary raised both hands, the blood pooling around it sped away, crashing against fire and bursting through Elya's spell, dissolving it. The sorceress's protective wards were peeled away almost in a heartbeat, when the blood magic touched them. Skin cracked open and was peeled off of bone as the corrosive spell touched her, then a detonation of blood engulfed Elya.

Araris, back on his feet, used the emissary's momentary distraction, charging the last few steps. Reaching the darkspawn, Araris brought it into a lover's embrace and punched his pale dagger into the darkspawn's torso, driving it through the ribcage and piercing its heart. Whilst the beast fell, the dagger slid free effortlessly.

He spun around, trying to spot Elya in the surrounding mess, but he could not. His eyes searching, he became aware that the battle had ceased. Survivors hobbled through the ranks of the dead, killing off injured darkspawn and searching for wounded comrades to tend to. His gaze wandered over the rural landscape, now littered with bodies and tainted red.

_So few._

Dragging his sodden feet, one squelching step at a time, out of the macabre bath of blood, he started walking towards a group of soldiers, a bit off to the side of battlefield, distributing bandages and applying salves to wailing men and women. A revolting cough to his right startled Araris. He walked a few uncertain steps towards the source, and was able to recognize Elya lying on her back. The earth around her bloodied and fissured with no discernible pattern. Her eyes were vainly trying to focus on his approaching form, wrinkles forming around them. From below her belly nothing was left.

'Elya.' Araris buckled under a sudden weight, fell to his knees beside her.

'It's alright.' She coughed up more blood, smiling weakly at him. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The sorceress tried to clear her throat, then she breathed out.

Araris felt a small flame within him, hope that he'd survive all this with his dignity intact, surrounded by people he could trust and who's company he could cherish. That day, kneeling besides Elya, he felt this flame die. Erased by the cries of the dying, the silent accusation of those already dead and cleared from his mind by the images of gutted and dismembered corpses. His people. Men and women, old as well as young, many who died for friends, others for family, and some died for people they didn't even know. Where once flickered an already waning flame, now everything was clouded in all-encompassing darkness.

Araris leaned over Elya, planting a kiss on her forehead. 'The Maker shall embrace you, Elya Amell. For the templars did not manage to shackle you to bitterness. You are what this world needs. Far more than it needs me.'

The remnants of her mauled and torn shawl, he tied around the wrist of his left hand. Watching, as it dangled idly in the soft breeze.

'You shan't be forgotten.'

**.**

**.**

Anethayín woke with an unsurmountable sorrow wrenching her heart.

Unpacking her fiddle, she started to tuck at the strings, slowly and gently. Early risers soon gathered round, some certainly woken by her. The chatter among them died as she began to sing.

_(Listen to "Leliana's Song" - Dragon Age: Origins OST)_

Hahren na melana sahlin

emma ir abelas

souver'inan isala hamin

vhenan him dor'felas

in uthenera na revas

vir sulahn'nehn

vir dirthera

vir samahl la numin

vir lath sa'vunin**.**

The sadness did not leave Anethayín, only turned bearable, still hurting and aching with every beat of her fluttering heart. She'd acknowledged the pain and would live to see past this fleeting moment. That was her commitment, her promise. To the people around, to nature, to the world and everything that moved within it, seen and unseen.

A woman approached her, short cropped hair tousled, a patch depicting a watermill sewn in her leather jacket. 'That was beautiful,' she said. 'A song of your people?'

'It is an elven eulogy. As ancient as my kin, if legend is to be believed. Ages past, my people were gifted with immortality and underwent the passage into uthenera, the timeless sleep. But since the quickening of our blood we are immortal no longer, and this is a song now used to mourn our dead.'

'Why did you play it?'

'I had to.'

The woman left with a disturbed expression on her face.

**.**

**.**

_And there Araris stands reveiled, having to pick up only the banner and the burden with it._

_Oh, and, to me, everyone is fair game. Just letting you know._

_Thanks for reading!_


	17. The Banner Of The Dead

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes._

_Sorry to keep you all waiting for so very long. The words wouldn't come. I tried, but was never satisfied or outright didn't manage to put something of value down. I hope this cuts it. I'm not entirely sure myself. But I feel okay with what I've written._

_Also, big battle approaching, if you read attentively. Don't even have to read between the lines, it's spelled out quite obviously. Are there some things you'd like to see? I'm open for suggetions, maybe I'll be able to fit some things in._

_Enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XVII **

**The Banner Of The Dead**

**.**

**.**

They came to her tent when the sky was still dark and well before greying into day. Speaking with her fellow mercenaries, guarding the entrance, Farah'an found that the words didn't penetrated the tent, for they whispered. Probably abstaining from waking her. And what a fine job they did, she'd heard the King's Blade's messengers from dozens of paces off. They were like children running around, wearing a harness of bells, so loud clinked their chainmail. One of the guards posted outside rapped against a pole of her tent.

'Yes?'

He peered inside, allowing the flicker of torches and braziers outside to wash in, and seemed to take the fact in stride that she was already up and donning her garments.

'The King's Blade, Isala'k,' he spoke, low. 'She asks your presence.'

Farah'an arched a pierced brow. 'Asks?'

The guard merely nodded. Farah'an waved him off and finished dressing, hauling a thick fur coat over her wide shoulders.

Exiting, she once more damned this country for its biting cold, giving no regard to layers of cloth or flesh. It dug right down to the bone and settled there, content to linger until the surrounding flesh would turn blue and black. And winter hadn't even arrived, or so she'd been told.

Farah'an followed the messenger, eager to enter the shelter of another tent as quickly as possible. Inside, the King's Blade, bleary eyed and her hair tousled waited alongside Commander One-Eye. Her amusement at the moniker she'd outfitted the old fellow with shrank at the sight presented to her.

Head lowered and face hidden behind a curtain of unwashed hair, hands shackled so tight they drew blood, kneeled one of her mercenaries. His horns weren't even fully developed, a young one, then.

'What is the meaning of this?' Farah'an asked, voice louder than she intended, still rough with sleep.

The King's Blade and One-Eye jerked around, becoming aware of her presence. The King's Blade gestured tiredly at her commander.

'We've apprehended a deserter, Isala'k,' he said. 'Tried to sneak by camp during the night. One of our patrols picked him up by pure luck.'

Brows furrowed, Farah'an approached the young man, lowered herself to his level. There were no deserters among her company. 'What's your name?'

No answer came. She moved closer. He mumbled something. Farah'an grabbed his chin and made him look her in the eye. His eyes didn't focus, they stared off at something she couldn't possibly hope to see. All the while, the incoherent mumbling continued.

Firmly in her grip, Farah'an turned his head left and right, as if gauging the value of a curio on a souvenir bazaar. His skin was dry as parchment, lips cracked and broken. Farah'an leaned in closer till her ear nearly touched his mouth, still forming words. Though he'd switched into his mother tongue, Qunlat. She listened for a while, before rising again.

'This is no deserter, King's Blade,' Farah'an proclaimed. She made a helpless gesture. 'But I've about as much use for him as for a deserter.'

'Your meaning?' The woman asked.

'He's of one of the foraging troops I've had to leave behind. Probably didn't even know he walked by our camp. He's trapped in his own head.'

'Like . . . a trauma, you mean?'

'I guess that is the most appropriate word. It slipped my mind for a moment there. Your tongue is still foreign to me.'

The young qunari muttered on silently, rocking back and forth, like a baby in a cradle. Something curious awakened in Farah'an. An instinct, deeply rooted, yet foreign, in a way.

One-Eye shuffled around. 'What did he say?'

Farah'an looked back at the disquieting sight. 'Something out of the shadows. Silver under the moon. And blood.' She sighed. 'So much blood.' It made no sense to her.

'So? The ravings of a man gone mad, then. Probably saw his unit killed.'

Which soldier hasn't, old man? One-Eye should know better than that. But he probably never saw his entire squad killed, not with both eyes. Her accumulated respect for elderly commander sank.

Farah'an couldn't avert her gaze from the young warrior under her command and thus reached a decision, intent to follow it through, even if it pained her.

'What would you have us do with him, Isala'k?'

'Release him.'

Both humans shuffled around behind her, unsure.

'There is nothing you can do for him,' she added.

'But you can?'

'Yes. I can _release_ him.'

They didn't understand, not until later, but freed him of his iron shackles anyway. Typical. Humans, always so ready to follow when they didn't understand, much less dare to question.

Farah'an would release him of his oath to her. Free him to return into the embrace of the Qun again. He'd done more than enough to merit this gesture.

But the disquiet rummaging in her belly didn't stop. Something was at work here, something none of them knew about, weren't even looking for.

A wild card. An unknown one, at that. She despised wild cards. And unknowns. Especially so shortly before an engagement with the enemy.

The Qun lectured her to locate and exterminate wild cards.

_Better be fast, then._

**.**

**.**

The vultures had by now settled down, taken their seats at this banquette, ready to feast on eyes and exposed organs. Some took it upon themselves to watch over the heaps of flesh from spears, swords and poles, clinging on to tattered banners flapping in the wind, stuck in the blood-soaked ground, urging their companions on with cries.

Araris kneeled among them, posture slack, hands forgotten in his lap. His garments heavy with the reek of sweat, dried blood and other fluids. His eye-lids lost more of their strength with every heartbeat, fluttering like the wings of the carnivores surrounding him.

Sparing one last glance at the shredded piece of cloth wrapped around his wrist, Araris gathered up the remains of Elya at his feet and carried her with all the care you could carry a corpse missing everything down from the midst. Entrails slipped outside with a wet noise, trailing after him like a grotesque gown.

Without focus he found his way off the battlefield and marched among the throngs of soldiers, most still busy screaming and dying.

Araris set her off at a lone tree, its branches dead and blackened by the Blight, he leaned against it and dozed off, staring into Elya's flat eyes, who returned the gesture.

He startled upright when someone nudged his foot. Araris' hand immediately went to his shoulder but found the grip of his longsword absent. A shadow blocked his view.

'Time to get up, lazy.'

Araris accepted the offered hand and was hauled to his feet with a speed that shocked his benumbed arm. The boar of a man, Gallagher Wulff, clapped him on the shoulder, setting Araris' teeth shaking.

Araris didn't feel in the mood for joking, but made an effort. 'Good to see you still have a hold of that humour of yours, old man. We'll need it.'

Arl Gallagher Wulff bellowed a laugh which put many a warrior's war cry to shame. 'Of course, laddie.' He looked at Araris, more serious. 'I didn't even know you were in Ferelden. Maker, I didn't even know if you were alive. No one did.'

'Well. I am.' Araris blinked around, nodded down. 'Where is she?'

'Some of your men took her away. All careful and venerating. Must've been quite the woman.' Gallagher Wulff looked away. 'Shame to see her go like that.'

Araris massaged his temples and rubbed his eyes, weary. 'I guess she was. And they're not my men.'

The arl chortled a laugh. 'They're now laddie, if you want or not. And mine are, as well. After that stunt you pulled. Didn't your father ever tell you heroics will get you killed.'

Araris saw the realisation speed over his face, followed by the immediate regret. 'He did. But he's dead now,' said Araris.

He held off an apology by the arl with a raised hand. But the hurt in the old man's eyes didn't diminish. 'Don't be sorry. What's done is done. No amount of words will change that. The time for words is now past. There's nothing to talk about any longer. Everyone's had enough of empty promises. Will you stand beside me in action?' Strangely, Araris felt he meant what he said. All of it.

Gallagher Wulff nodded gravely. 'I will. Just point me in a direction and teeth will fly.'

Araris layered on a faint smile. 'Good. Let the men gather everything of value and get them ready to move back to camp. The dead we leave. Once there we'll regroup, get our wounded patched up, then return to the others.'

'Yes, my lord.'

Something lashed through Araris at the statement of obedience. A beast of prey snarled, content.

For now.

In the distance, the vultures saluted him with their cries.

**.**

**.**

You could see it in their eyes, their stance. The fear etched into their demeanour. All of them were riled up about the reports arriving from the east by messenger. Reports of the approaching of the King's Blade, only a bit over a week away. The clash was unavoidable, impending and looming above them like a dark cloud. And an ending in, most likely, a decisive victory for the king-regent seemed a plausible outcome.

By now, Leonas Bryland appeared to question his decision to let some of the few remaining casks of wine remaining in the entire encampment of the rebel host be opened. Tempers already ran hot, probably just to forget about the increasingly unpleasant temperatures outside. Add wine to that, and nothing good comes of it.

The lords and ladies, noblemen and noblewomen, and other worthies who deemed themselves worthy of attending this meeting as soon as they caught a whiff of it, stood gathered around the table, leaning onto the top to achieve some kind of physical superiority over their counterpart, and simply shouted at each other. Hurling insults and accusations this way and that, some of which would make seasoned sailors blush. Maybe even the odd surface dwarf.

Most of them had no purpose being here. But their life and the life of their people was the gambling chip on the table, they couldn't stand idly by. Half of them probably didn't care about their people, only about saving their own skin, the other half hadn't even arrived with people to speak of, and much less soldiers to bolster the pitiful number of veterans among their ranks. Why Leonas hadn't kicked them out right away, Alfstanna didn't rightly understand. But refusing someone in need is hard.

They prevented real work from being done, instead they only added to the heap of it with their bickering. Generations-old grudges and grievances unsheathed like weapons, aimed at their enemies with hurtful intent.

Leonas sat through it in his chair, slumped, face cupped in one hand, eyes staring off. He didn't even react to any slurs thrown his way, didn't even blink. He looked worse by the day to Alfstanna. The gauntness to his cheeks and the smears under his eyes could already be described as sickly.

Alfstanna sighed, unable to help the poor man. Someone she called friend over the years. The burden of leadership would soon crush him, maybe already had.

Then came the inevitable, as all those worked-up men and women focused their ire and sighted a ready scapegoat, meek, the look of the defeat already about him, presented on a platter.

'It was him!'

'We should've never followed that Orlesian rat!'

'You've led us to ruin and death! You hear me, Bryland? Ruin and death!'

'Maker take you!'

Bann Loren of Lothering tried to outshout his own entourage of landowners, lords and ladies. With animated hacking and slashing gestures he sent spittle flying, but it did naught to those under his banner but entice them to shout back at him with renewed vigour. About Bryland's incompetence, about his incompetence. About everybody's incompetence but their own.

Bann Fanderel of the stronghold West Hill, the newest addition to their rebellion, managed to keep his fellow bannermen more under control, if only by a margin. A slim fellow, whip-lean, with short-cropped hair, greying at the edges, at times a look of his hard, nearly black eyes subdued those pledged to him back into obedience. But not all.

The rest of them preyed upon hapless Leonas Bryland, hurling their accusations like rotten fruit and faeces at a convicted man to be hanged shortly.

Alfstanna couldn't take it any longer, couldn't watch him sit there, doing nothing but succumb to himself and his burden and wait till the mob of nobles hauled him outside and took his head off. A twitch around the eyes here, a miniscule flinch of the shoulders there, she spotted the way each accusation cut deeper than flesh, so deep he probably believed them. He'd probably go willingly with them to the executioner's block.

Alfstanna jumped up, sending her chair clattering to the ground and grabbed as many of the wooden figurines dotting the plain wooden table. Two, as it turned out, found place in her small hands. She hurled them at the angry mob fixated on Leonas, those concentrating their efforts to a fusillade without pause.

Blood pumped and rushed to her head from all the shouting she now did herself. But her voice drowned in the erratic maelstrom of anger and blind judgement.

Until, through the chaotic noise of dozens of shouting people cut a bone-rattling roar, like that of a wild boar, perched on his hind legs to appear threatening and intimidate. And intimidate it did.

The nobles and worthies shrank and jumped away from the sound as if burned by the acoustics. They cowered and stared, wide-eyed, gaping like fish. Lips up and down. Up and down.

For there stood a boar indeed, filling out the entrance of the tent alone with sheer mass. A man of a boar. Arl Gallagher Wulff of West Hills in all his gruff majesty. Chainmail and boiled leather still dirtied and bloodied, his bald pate raked with scratches and cuts, and his beard a greasy mess. To Alfstanna he was a sight for sore eyes and she couldn't help the smile taunting her face.

Only now did she register the young messenger standing behind him, uncertain. He'd probably tried to announce the arl, but, well. No chance for that with this lousy lot.

Gallagher Wulff looked around, his intense stare gauging the entire tent. When he caught Alfstanna's eye, the corners of his broad mouth twitched.

'There will be silence, you mongrels! What is it you're trying to accomplish here? Shout so loud, the King's Blade can find you blindfolded?' He gazed from side to side, a maniacal expression layered on. Alfstanna would laugh, but then, that would hardly be appropriate.

Sure to have captured everyone's attention, he said, 'And I expect you to bow.'

Alfstanna frowned and one of the lesser nobles, a minor landowner and his wife under Bann Loren, Alfstanna believed to remember, voiced her confusion out lout with faked heat in his speech, 'Bow. Whom to? You?'

A laugh bubbled out of Gallagher Wulff's broad mouth, stopped just as abruptly. Deadpan, he said, 'No. To the man who's banner you fly, you cretin.'

And with the figure who entered next, about as tall as Wulff himself, but far more fine-boned and slimmer, the shocked silence after the arl's appearance turned into something else entirely. It took a few heartbeats for most. But then they recognised him, a ghost, a spectre of the past. Even Alfstanna had trouble to believe her eyes. Beside her Leonas rose, simply concentrating on breathing. A pallor to his skin, like most of the people filling the tent into a cramped, heated place.

For those who'd never met the man or didn't outright recognise him due to his peculiar appearance, a ripple went out, whispered and hushed in fear or awe, probably both in equal measures: Cousland.

A name thought dead, extinct, risen again. Alfstanna had never seen a group of people this disquieted.

His voice was a metallic rasp, it drove a flinch through the assembled crowd. 'Leonas. Alfstanna.' He nodded at them. 'A word, if you please.'

Heads turned this way and that. Muttering and mumbling started to rise up like a lapping wave, crawling up to the shore.

'You heard him!' boomed Gallagher Wulff. 'Off you go!'

They filed out with haste, nearly trampling over each other in their sudden eagerness to leave the tent. Once they were amongst their foursome and in relieving silence, Arl Gallagher Wulff stomped to the back of tent and poured himself some red wine from a clay pitcher. Downed it in one big gulp and poured anew.

Araris settled down in a chair next to Leonas. He hadn't lost any of his fluid efficacy of movement which Alfstanna remembered so fondly.

'It is good to see you both well,' he spoke.

Leonas scratched his brow. 'I fear I've brought no honour to your name with my actions.' He hesitated at the end, unsure how to address the man sitting beside him.

Araris reached for the goblet offered by Gallagher Wulff with a thankful gesture. 'Fuck honour, Leonas. Keep it for the fairy tales and the romantics. What do they know of the world?'

'Nevertheless-'

Araris cut him off. 'No. You've done far better than anyone else would have in your stead. It's war. Bad things happen. And once you start a war you cannot control it.'

A hotness lingered under Alfstanna's breasts, seeing as how Leonas Bryland didn't seem to agree with Araris, struggled against his reassurances. It didn't matter if they were hollow or truthful, Leonas needed to hear them, really hear them. And if Araris Cousland could ever be called good at something, then guarding his inner mind was surely among those qualities. Even more so now, it seemed.

'Don't listen to the filth coming out their mouths. Let them bicker.' Araris took a sip, all the while eying the arl of South Reach. 'Better in here than they sow discontent out there.'

Leonas shook his head. 'I'm not made for this.'

Araris nodded gently, placed a hand upon Leonas' shoulder and waited till the man met his gaze. 'Some men are. Some men aren't.' The Cousland scion shrugged. 'It's the way of the world. But for someone who isn't made for this, you bloodied them pretty good.'

Alfstanna smiled at Gallagher Wulff, who also handed her a much needed goblet to flush down all that unpleasantness stuck in her throat. 'He's right, you know,' she said to Leonas. 'You're too hard on yourself. Always have been.'

Leonas tried for a grateful expression, nearly accomplished it. 'Yet, pretty good doesn't cut it during warfare.'

'No,' said Araris, flatly. 'But it's a start.'

'I'm assuming you'll take over this sorry bunch?' Still not able to speak his name or add a title, he swallowed audibly. Araris chose to overlook it or simply didn't have the energy to care.

'And whip them into shape, correct. That doesn't mean you're off the hook, Leonas. I need you.' He looked around, a cold fire dancing in his bright eyes. 'All of you.'

Alfstanna nodded once. Then again, more sure of herself.

'Well, laddie,' Gallagher Wulff grated out, in between stuffing grapes and pieces of bread into his mouth. 'I already told you. I'll send teeth flying for you.' He dipped his head to the entrance. 'Let me start with this lot. Beat some sense into them.'

'No need. When they need beating, I'll do it myself,' Araris said.

Leonas sighed, life returning to him now that he could let go. Of some things, at the very least. 'I'm with you as well, Araris. For the Laurel. And for Ferelden.'

They echoed his words. 'For the Laurel. For Ferelden.'

**.**

**.**

Anethayín was a bit out of breath from the hike. Thankfully, her stamina could only improve the longer she marched with what she found out they called the rebel host. Granted, she might be a far-travelled minstrel, but she'd never witnessed a host. Yet, Anethayín was pretty sure, this didn't qualify as such. Probably good for morale, though.

Exhaling, she straightened out her jacket and trousers, not paying any heed to the two, grim-face guards wearing blackened chain beneath grey leathers, a silver brooch holding their cloaks together at the neck.

She'd never met a real lord. Only pretend-lords and ladies who tried to lure her for her voice. And sometimes for her flesh. Driving away the stray thoughts, Anethayín entered.

'Oh,' she said, a bit disappointed. 'It's you.' She shook her head. 'Of course, it's you.'

From the back of the octagonal tent, Araris glanced at her, amusement lighting up his features, whilst he filled two goblets with red wine. 'Who did you expect?'

'Well. I didn't know. First I thought, what would a lord – any lord – want with me? A few ideas came and went. Had to see for myself, but then I thought. Wait. Cousland. How's that possible. Took your advice, heard around a bit and looky there the camp's on fire with rumours. I guess I must've been so excited I forgot to take all I know of you into account. But that's fine as well, I get to meet a real nobleman, no matter what.' She shot a smirk his way.

'So, that's what took you so long. All that self-exploration, running around in camp and chasing after hearsay. You know, most nobles out there would've taken your tardiness as an insult, Anethayín. The noose would probably be prepared already.'

Anethayín took hold of the goblet he offered her, sipped a bit at the vintage, savouring its taste. 'Nah. Somebody has to keep you grounded, you know. Not have every wish of yours fulfilled. And stop with the gloominess. It's cliché.'

Araris eased into a chair, sighing, doing nothing but staring into his goblet. Anethayín blinked, something twitched in her gut, settled there like the bruise of a punch. Maybe the cliché wasn't so cliché after all.

'So. You're, uh, tent's nice. Better than our recent accommodations.'

Araris chuckled at her blatant change of topic. He peered around. 'It is. Isn't it. Planning on staying?'

'Me? Oh, no.' Her time to let a laugh escape. 'I belong among the common flock. Playing my lute and spreading cheer and happiness. Of course, I'll be spying for you and report anything out of the ordinary immediately, your Gloriously Shining Radiance, etcetera, etcetera.'

'Very good. Off with you, then, Mistress Spymaster.'

'I shall speed to your will.'

Yet, she stayed for quite some time before making good on her promise.

**.**

**.**

_So, when is Araris faking and when is he being sincere? Who knows . . ._

_Thank you all for reading and keeping up with me and my sporadic updates._

_Love you all,_

_fjun_


	18. Passage

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes._

Please read this:

_I've noticed some mistakes I've made while writing this story, plot-wise. Most probably stem from the fact that there are times when I don't write and publish new chapters and lose sight of what I've already written in detail or what I've mentioned. Others because this story continuously changes and evolves, because, it seems, I've an endless pool of ideas and things I want to incorporate, some well so far reaching that they'll play a part in DAII and DA:I, though the latter will be severely verging into AU territory as it seems right now. _

_Regarding the first kind of mistake, for example, at the end of the last chapter when Anethayín goes up into the heart of the camp she ponders who this nobleman asking for her might just be and she knows of the rumours that a Cousland is in camp. That entire scene is, essentially wrong, because Araris had already confessed to her his heritage, but it just slipped my mind. There are other mistakes like this which I've found. I'm aware of them, they upset me. So, please, let it be known, that at some point in the future I'll go over every chapter and correct them and smooth over all the wrinkles I find._

_And, just as a heads-up, when Loghain sent Cauthrien out to reel the Bannorn in and stomp the rebellion, he gave her roughly three to four thousand soldiers. I've hinted and alluded that she'd since been joined by Gwaren cavalry and other forces, then again a portion of her armed force she sent away to the north. This isn't in line with the story any longer and with what I've planned and thus will be changed accordingly. Also the Iachus Valley is no longer a valley but a plain. These changes adher from the fact that I've settled for a much bigger confrontation, but for a glimpse of that you need only read this chapter._

_I also wanted to thank NightlyRowenTree, Judy, Theodur, lupusadaquilonem and Guest for reviewing the last chapter (which bested my previous highscore of four reviews per a single chapter) and all others out there reading and hopefully enjoying my story._

_So thank you and enjoy the newest chapter of a book written In An Age Full Of Heroes._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XVIII **

**Passage**

**.**

**.**

'You did _what_?!'

When the gathered forces, under the banner of the brown bear, led by the young royal commander, named Fledg, arrived and pitched their tents, the King's Blade's dismay was heard by a large portion of the camp at the report they delivered, so loud did she voice it.

Apparently, there'd been some kind of outrageous fuck up in the north at the siege of West Hill.

Commander Fledg crippled and carried in on a stretcher, skin red like a newborn's, blistered by hot oil on the first day of the siege. The seniority of command of the amassed troops in the north had fallen to Commander Blist, lapdog of the newly appointed Teyrn Howe.

The fortress held by the steadfast Bann Fanderel had been besieged day and night for nearly a week. Without success. Whenever the forces of the crown gained purchase on the high limestone walls, climbing the crenellations with ladders, they were either outright routed on the spot or sent tumbling back down to a demise of broken bones and shattered bodies. Soon the ladders had to be deployed on the ranks of bloated carcasses of comrades in arms.

Morale buckled and swayed like a tub in a storm. The royal forces of Gwaren reeled and barked under the command of Blist and slowly insubordination surfaced at the suicidal commands the man issued. Mutiny appeared only a short step off the path, but still the Amaranthine born and bred man ordered his men to storm the walls.

Without the guidance of their own commanding officer, any thought of mutiny was quickly stomped, every tenth man hanged premonitorily to serve as a reminder.

Stricken with famish and disease, that night the defenders of West Hill nonetheless found the energy reserves to cheer and laugh as their enemies did their work for them. Trousers were dropped, cheeks bared and spread, among other obscenities.

The siege went on for another week. By now, the rebel defenders of the fortress used anything even approaching a state of sharpness, be it iron or steel, as projectiles and weapons to fend off the attackers. Then, to top it all off, hurled their faeces and their dead carrying sickness over the walls and in front of the royal encampment.

Despite their best efforts, the men didn't succeed in burning the heaps of fly-attracting meat fast enough. Disease caught and spread swiftly. A quarter of the men couldn't get up on their own anymore a few days after. A third of the men had already been killed in various assaults and by sorties led, according to eyewitnesses, by Bann Fanderel himself on horseback, targeting supply depots, aiming to cripple rather than kill.

Commander Blist broke camp and ordered the siege abandoned, for fear that they might arrive too late to support the King's Blade in her confrontation with the growing rebel host.

When asked, what to do with the sick and dying, he had them put to the sword where they lay. The men under his own command and the mercenaries hired by the newly acquired wealth of Teyrn Howe fulfilled the task without batting any eye, it was said.

Upon his arrival, the King's Blade promptly beheaded the man. The exact charges were unclear. Most didn't care either way. Only the Amaranthine forces cast angry eyes at everyone else, grumbled and insulted but dared nothing else besides.

West Hill, the western gateway to the northern mountain ranges stood uncontested, still firmly in rebel hands.

The royal forces tasted defeat for the first time, shortly before battle.

**.**

**.**

The entire camp had gathered. Silence reigned, a heavy oppressor lingering in the very air. Not a breeze disturbed the sullen calm. There lay an eloquence in the absence of sound which couldn't be described with words. Even the insects and birds seemed to hold their collective breath, gawking out from beneath the undergrowth, through bushes, and the trees with beady black eyes, sensing that something was afoot. Something even they shared and comprehended, ingrained in their instincts.

A passage.

Sisters of the Chantry who had arrived with the throngs of refugees, flocking to this convergence of desperate men from every corner of Ferelden, had washed and cleaned Elya Charlotte Amell's body, covered it in oils and balms. Stones, with eyes painted on them rested on her closed lids. Her missing legs and hips were covered with a blanket.

Elya Amell rested, peaceful at last, on a square block build from wood, lying on a bed of laurel wreaths, upon a great plateau drawn up so that all could witness her passage to the Maker's side. Even if Chantry teachings insisted otherwise, for those who wrought magic were blasphemy made flesh. And no blasphemer would be tolerated by their god, or so proclaimed the Chant.

Alfstanna wiped at her eyes, trying to drive away the wetness, clearing her awash vision. It did not help. Cheeks moist with tears shed, her heart ached for this woman who'd stood out among them all. And not only because of her sorcerous talent. Here among them, none saw in her the hideous mark of blasphemy or impiety, but rather this woman stood out because of her humanness, her gentle and kind soul which had driven her, day after day, to exhaust herself in the countless infirmaries to heal and mend and cure. Elya had broken through the superstition.

But in the end, she hadn't been able to save herself. There was something to be found in that simple discovery, though Alfstanna knew not what. Something cruel and unforgiving perhaps. She hadn't been able to bear to listen through the tale Araris Cousland told them of the sorceress' sacrifice. She did not go gentle into the silent night, he'd told her. But the knowledge gave Alfstanna no peace of heart or mind, it poured even more pain in and through her.

The rebellion lost scores of people each day to famish, spreading disease, the quickly cooling temperatures and terrible wounds. But this drove deeper into Alfstanna than any wound or loss she could imagine. The loss of Elya Amell, the loss of her friend. The loss of a bright light for everyone part of the rebel host. Elya had been their beacon of hope with all her altruistic tendencies.

Alfstanna could taste the sorrow of the people, their silent mourning as they stared red-eyed and weeping. The notion granted her a slim measure, soothing, if only just noticeable among the potent concoction of feeling coursing through her, making her dizzy.

All the lords and ladies crowded around the tall, fair-haired figure of Araris Cousland, his passionless expression betraying nothing, not even a hint. He'd always been a cold bastard. Alfstanna chided herself for the thought. Only because he didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve for all to see. That didn't give her the right to feel angry at him. But Elya gave her life for the man, he could at least let something seep through that flat mask of his.

With a rustle of leather and chainmail, Araris Cousland stepped forward. A Highever knight, one of the Mortal Swords, handed him a torch. Since his arrival, the men of that famed company hovered around him wherever he went, at minimum a full squad at all times. Protecting the man whom they were sworn to give their life for, unquestionably and without hesitance. Their oath filled with purpose and meaning once more.

Picking his way up the wooden plateau with calm steps, Araris Cousland lowered the torch, its flame licking at one corner of the pyre. Sparks and fire jumped and found a new home, began hissing and popping away.

Seven sisters of the Chantry, beyond care who lay on the funeral pyre by now, their faith jaded by what they'd witnessed, and one mother began to intone a song, filled with darkness, shadow, but also light. For death is only a door to the next world where awaited He Who Shepherds The Departed To His Side. The song danced and weaved itself into the cackle of the growing fire, a background cadence supported by the sniffles and sobs of the mourning.

Alfstanna had never heard anything more heart-wrenching and beautiful at the same time.

Araris turned back, his lean frame illuminated by the fire and retreated down the plateau. Alfstanna's heart pounded in the cavity of her chest. The Last Laurel halted before her, something in his eyes, a knowing look as he passed the torch on to her.

Alfstanna went forward and did her duty with a heavy heart, a shudder escaping her as her shoulders sagged. For her friend. For Elya. The woman who'd been loved by the entire encampment.

One after the other, they went forward and set fire to the body of Elya Amell, watched her burn without a single word spoken. There existed no need. The proceedings went by in a haze. Alfstanna couldn't tell how long she lingered on. She already trembled from the cold, gazed at the blazing fire, this edifice of death and life renewed at the Maker's side.

Slowly, the people filed and shuffled away, heads kept down, arms draped over shoulders to consolidate each other. They returned to their lives, torn, not knowing how things would ever be the same without Elya, if they even felt a sliver of what Alfstanna had rummaging around inside her, reshuffling her insides.

After what seemed like hours, none were left, bar her, Araris Cousland, hand on the pommel of his longsword, now sheathed at his hip, and his personal guard. With a sign, he sent them away. They were hesitant at first, but abided his command after a few traded looks.

Araris came over to her side and spoke, 'We shall keep vigil over her. Us two.'

Alfstanna managed a terse nod, thankful.

**.**

**.**

'This is madness,' said Bann Ackley of Bright Hills, slowly shaking his rotund head from side to side. His bulbous red nose and veiny skin bespoke of his most beloved leisure activity. 'Even you must know that, Your Lordship.'

The plump man gestured helplessly. 'Even Arl Bryland realised that meeting the King's Blade on the open field could only result in disaster.'

Leonas appeared stricken, though it wasn't meant as an accusation by the bann. That much was clear. How quickly they turned when it suited their needs. One time an insult, the other a grounds for argumentations of reason and logic.

Then again, maybe Bann Ackley didn't want to go down into history as the bann on whose land had been waged the biggest battle in the Fereldan civil war. Or bear the responsibility for nurturing the field of battle back to normality after a blanket of carcasses and blood soured the Iachus Plain's fertile ground.

'Why did you join our cause, Bann Ackley?' asked Araris, out of nowhere, staring at the man with a barely interested gaze from his seat at the head of the table.

'Your Lordship?' Heads swivelled from side to side to gauge reactions and follow the conversation, for the bann of Bright Hills occupied the other end of their council.

'It is a simple question, my lord. Why did you join us?'

Bann Ackley glanced around, eyes shifty, searching. 'Y-Your Lordship,' he stammered, 'your host made camp on _my_ lands. Practically before my homestead.'

Leaning back, Araris inhaled and licked his upper lip. 'So it was not then, because you feared the King's Blades wrath?'

'I never did the crown any ill, Your Lordship! Not until your host did not want to leave my lands. What choice had I?'

A flicker of a smile twitched over Araris' lips. 'True. But the King's Blade's armed forces would've reached your lands, as well. Eventually. Did you think they'd just march by you and leave you to your hooch?'

Flabbergasted, Bann Ackley's face reddened. He couldn't force himself to bring out a single coherent word.

'No, they wouldn't have. The King's Blade would've given you an ultimatum like all the others who had not yet taken up arms against the usurper on the throne. Do you know of this ultimatum, Bann Ackley?' Araris paused, looked around, let it settle and then voiced the answer to the rhetoric question they all knew. Laconic, he said, 'Submit. Or burn. Oxfurd, Kingsfield, Dogwood, Red Valley, Greybear, Calder Hills, Calenfort, Garrik. All bannorns which submitted in the end. Some had to burn first, at others only a few were hanged, crucified or beheaded to assure stability, as the king-regent calls it. You would've submitted right away, of course. You are a sensible man, after all.' Alfstanna had to suppress an amused snort at the bann's expression. Oh, how his still red face lit up under the praise, the insult from afore already out of mind. 'No need to send your young to certain death. Yet, to submit means that precisely these young men and women are conscripted to the cause of the King's Blade. Your firstborn heir and half your family with him are taken hostage. Just in case. Tell me then, is this the fate you wish for yourself, Bann Ackley? For those under your care and everyone else of the Bannorn?'

'No, Your Lordship,' he answered, meek.

Araris nodded to himself. 'I thought not. Then running from the King's Blade isn't a viable option. Not now. Not ever.'

'Very good, Your Lordship. I bow to your wisdom.' Bann Ackley actually bowed, while seated, which made the movement awkward. But with his potbelly in the way it presumably would've been awkward no matter what.

'To business then.' Araris waved. 'Captain Bars, what of our situation?'

The captain of the Mortal Swords, a stern fellow, with hard eyes the colour of stone and his dark-skinned forearms criss-crossed with pale scars stepped forward from behind the man he swore an oath to and addressed the gathered nobles. This time there were only those required present. Alfstanna recognised the subtle outlines of a carefully studied play. Araris probably knew all about their bleak situation by now.

'We're able to field about thirteen thousand soldiers by trade, Your Lordship. Again as much and a bit more are refugees attached to the camp. About a third of them is in fighting shape, but they know nothing of soldiering. The rest is folk to old or young to even pick up a shield.'

Eyesight turned inwards, Araris Cousland said, 'Very well. Send out scouts and foraging parties to assess the King's Blade's location and strength. She probably split her force to cover more ground and will meet up shortly before making contact. Then find every able man and woman among the refugees and have them form a militia. Whip them into shape, captain. I want a regimen of drills to be performed every day until we move out. That goes for everyone. Knights, men-at-arms, infantry, skirmishers, sappers. Everyone.'

Captain Bars bowed, saluting. 'It shall be so, Your Lordship.'

'One more thing, captain. Once you are done organising, meet me back here.'

Grey eyes betraying nothing, he nodded and ducked out the tent to obey the commands of his liege.

'Bann Ackley,' Araris called. 'Since you know these lands best, you will lead a small troop to report on the current state of the Iachus Plain. Report back to me once you return.'

Bann Ackley's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. 'Me, Your Lordship?'

'Yes.'

'But, but-'

Araris lazily swiped his hand through the air. 'You leave immediately. The men accompanying you await outside with your horse readied, my lord.'

There was nothing left for the man but to scamper out the tent, shock written on his features, still sputtering. Once gone, Gallagher Wulff rumbled a laugh and mumbled something inaudible into his beard, shoulders shaking with mirth. Alfstanna stole a glance at Leonas, sitting across her, both of them on each side of Araris Cousland. Even he appeared to be smiling, cleverly hiding it behind the rim of his goblet.

Bann Calder of Eoforstown piped up in the more or less silence. 'Your Lordship, if I may?'

The stifled laughter and bemusement settled down and receded. Araris inclined his head at the wild-looking, red-headed man, imitations of Avvar tribesmen tattoos curling up his neck and around his ears.

'One of my men approached me the last day. Reporting that he'd spotted a spy of the king-regent. Though he didn't know the woman's name, he claimed to have seen her dispatch a message via raven.'

The sudden change of topic, this particular topic had shifted the mood in the entire tent. Araris, merely blinked, as if he knew already. 'Did you follow up on his allegations?'

'Yes, Your Lordship. The woman could nowhere be found. And when we asked around if somebody'd seen her, nobody knew. I assigned the man as latrine warden for not bringing her to me immediately.' That lightened things up a bit, but the strain still existed as an undercurrent.

'I see. Well, it was to be expected.'

Alfstanna cocked her head. 'What do you mean, Your Lordship?' _Keep up appearances. Only because you know him since you both were children, doesn't mean you can throw respect out the window. More so when others are present. _Alfstanna drove her mother's voice from her head. At least, that's what she imagined her mother would've said, chiding her before she even did something wrong.

Araris peered around from face to face, then looked back at her, a strange expression flickering over his pale features. 'You mean you didn't know that there are spies in camp?'

Alfstanna frowned, traded a look with Leonas, who shook his head ever so slightly.

Araris sighed. 'There are. You can be sure of that. By now the King's Blade probably knows there's a Cousland leading the rebellion.'

Alfstanna pinched her nose. 'What are we to do about it?'

'Nothing.'

Her brows rose. 'Nothing?'

Araris shrugged. 'We would never get them all. Couldn't even be sure about it. Move against one and all the others go into hiding. Paranoia is also a weapon and the King's Blade would make use of it against us. All we have to manage is to draw some of them out and spot them. Then we can control what we let trickle through to the King's Blade and what she may know of our plans so as to nurture our advantage.'

Alfstanna had forgotten.

Of course, that's Araris Cousland's way of thought. Not how to deflect or dodge a blow, but rather how to reverse it altogether. The shared looks around the table appreciated his counsel and keen guidance.

Araris rose and with him all others.

'That's it, for now. Go brief your men and be ready to move out when the call comes.'

They bowed in unison. 'Your Lordship.'

'Bann Fanderel, stay for a moment longer.'

**.**

**.**

The worm screamed.

With a tightening of his massive fist, the spine broke and flesh split open, innards and squashed organs squeezed out between his fingers, abruptly silencing the wails of unfettered terror. With a sharp pull he tore off the worm's head, whitely glinting spine along with it, still covered in bits of flesh.

Plucking the bones from the corpses of those whom they had butchered moments ago, the three Che'ell brothers sucked the sweet marrow out of them, delighted at the opportunity to feast on these frail humans. They fell even easier than their horned brethren.

But their flesh tasted sour. Of fear and other passions. Their blood, too, as if a curse lingered on it. Thankfully, bones are pure, the pillars which kept life from slacking into a muddy sack of meat. Without order, without stature. Bones kept upright, gave strength to what would elsewise be naught but weak flesh. And weak flesh split easily. As did these bones.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers chortled and continued sucking on the broken human bones.

The Che'ell brothers had split up a fortnight ago, to better stalk their numerous preys across the green plains of this sphere of existence. And just as the Master had promised them, their prey was aplenty. Horses which they ate alive and humans which they slaughtered to enjoy them for dessert.

Forgotten, all of them had, the echoing howl which cursed through their war-scarred souls at the dealing of death to those beneath them. Seven of them, and they'd all along lied to themselves so convincingly they already believed to be woodcutters in truth. The Master had seen beyond their façade, penetrated the fog, he'd stared into the whirling depths of their desires and didn't shrink back from what he found. Rather, he embraced them and guided them back to where they really belonged.

Among the blood-soaked fields, dancing among the endless rows of the dead.

Howling with laughter.

But something he forgot . . .

If he could just remember.

**.**

**.**

_Note: There'll be another chapter later this week._


	19. Silent Confessions

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes._

_I want to thank lupusadaquilonem, Serithus, and Theodur for reviewing the last chapter, as well as all you others out there reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story._

_Let me know what you think of the latest chapter, if you feel inclined to share your opinion._

_Enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XIX **

**Silent Confessions**

**.**

**.**

The others filed out, some of them throwing him curious and questioning looks. Even should they choose to be so direct and outright ask him, he wouldn't know what to answer them. Fanderel had no notion as to why Araris Cousland wanted to speak to him.

Stepping aside, making room for the others, he waited, arms behind his back. When they were alone, only then he inquired, 'Your Lordship?'

Araris Cousland walked around the table, elongated fingers tracing the map on top the wooden table. He'd changed so much, since Fanderel last saw him. Not surprising, since he'd been just a boy, barely on the verge of adulthood when Araris Cousland mysteriously vanished. To the widespread concern of all in the teyrinr of Highever. Fanderel remembered speaking to his father and mother shortly after the incident occurred, nothing had been able to console them, to drive a spark of life into them for a long time. They mourned their son. And to all appearances he seemed dead or as good as dead, swallowed by the abyss itself. Yet here he stood and led a rebellion against the crown.

'Please, none of that when we are alone.' The Cousland scion gulped. Fanderel waited, patient. 'I've been meaning to thank you. You always were a steadfast and loyal vassal to my parents. That you remain so even after their death is . . . comforting.'

Fanderel nodded, understandingly. 'I'd know no other way . . . Araris.'

'Nonetheless.' The boy – still to his eyes, for he was nothing else, even if his appearance starkly suggested otherwise – searched him with the pale eyes of his mother. 'I heard of the siege at West Hill.'

Ah. So that was to be the topic of this conversation. Not much to say. 'We held. Our supplies dwindled and my men had to survive on a ladle of hot soup a day, then cold soup. But we held. When the henchmen of that traitor Howe proudly displayed their banner and demanded my gates to be opened in the name of Highever's new ruler I ordered the archers to open fire.' Fanderel chuckled. 'Didn't see it coming, the bastards.'

Araris Cousland shared his grim delight, then shifted around. 'But that isn't what I wanted to talk to you about.'

'Oh?'

'I want you to take the refugees unfit for combat and most of our supplies back to West Hill and shelter them there for the time being.'

Fanderel scratched his head, once again noting the growing absence of hair. 'My fortress is large, but not that large.'

'I don't care where you accommodate them and if it is in the sewers, then so be it. They'll live. I cannot keep them all safe once the battle starts. I need every soldier on the field.'

Fanderel ran a quick headcount, weighted the space of the forgotten, cob-web covered library underneath the fortress. 'I believe I can make due, my lord. It'll be cramped and there'll no doubt be lots of moaning, but . . .' Shrugging, Fanderel pondered the implications. 'Best I send a raven ahead with marching orders for the troops I left in charge to meet me half-way. Otherwise it'll be hard to keep this many people together.'

Araris Cousland nodded. 'Take the knights you arrived with. I'll attach four wings of men-at-arms to your command. The continuation of our cause rests upon your shoulders, Fanderel.'

'I shall lift this burden off your shoulders, Araris. Do I depart immediately?'

Araris shook his head. 'No. When we march for the Plain.'

'As you wish.' Fanderel bowed, arms crossed over his chest. 'Your Lordship.'

_Why not leave now?_

**.**

**.**

Another _fucking_ disaster.

They seemed to pile up as of late. The Maker tested her strength in ways she never thought possible, probed for weaknesses in her faith to be explored.

All of them, they sat hunched, heads lowered, eyes far-away, and brows clutched.

None had returned.

Not a single scouting party they'd sent out to gather intelligence on the precise whereabouts of the rebel host. As if the earth had parted and sucked them into its warm, musky embrace, they'd vanished.

Up until now her command staff had succeeded in keeping the fact a secret from the rest of the army. But soon rumours would start to arise, of comrades absent who should long since have returned. Rumour would quickly give way to apprehension and then fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of what they couldn't understand.

'An army afraid of its enemy is already defeated', her liege, the king-regent, Loghain Mac Tir had once told her, when she still had been a lieutenant in the army of Gwaren under his command. Different times. Yet her liege had always been there, the one unshakable constant in her life, a steady presence she could always rely upon.

Cauthrien already saw it in the eyes of her commanders, the doubt chiselling away their resolve, tiny stone by tiny stone. It was only a matter of time until it resolved to dust, carried away by winter winds, like it never existed.

Only Isala'k seemed unperturbed, for she gave no notice whatsoever. The towering woman played with one of her piercings, fondling them in thought or mayhap even boredom.

Even now, after weeks through their campaign to reel the Bannorn in, Cauthrien still winced at the qunari's appearance. She seemed a mere brute, a barbarian in compare to the others. Time and time again, Cauthrien reminded herself not to be deceived, for their resided a sharp intellect behind the woman's eyes. Sharper even than her slim, twin blades which the woman brandished everywhere she went.

Casting a glance at Isala'k, Cauthrien's gaze was drawn once more to the white porcelain half-mask covered in streaks of blood red, secured like a pouch at her belt. She'd been meaning to ask on many occasions, yet always decided against it. As to her reasons why, they still slipped through her net of understanding like an eel.

Commander Iskara spoke up in the laden silence, 'We've still the reports of our spies to fall back on.'

'They've become cautious with their reports, you said. For fear of being made out?' Cauthrien heard herself ask, with far less resolve than she intended. She sounded uncertain, weak. Isala'k threw her a look, pierced eyebrows pinched.

The one-eyed commander nodded slowly. 'Aye, King's Blade. It appears so. But before contact broke they got word out.'

Cauthrien found herself scowling. 'Of the Cousland.'

Commander Iskara looked away, answered shyly, like a little boy having been caught in the process of doing something naughty, 'Yes. The Cousland.'

'Teyrn Howe,' she said, feeling the urge to spit at the mention of the man, 'assured us that none of the traitors were alive. It seems he was wrong.' _It seems there are lies to his lies, just how deep is his web, how far reaching?_

The qunari mercenary commander peered around the table with narrowed eyes. 'Just why do all of you flinch and cower at the mention of this name?' she asked like she asked for the weather outside.

Heads were quick to lower as Isala'k called them out. Perhaps because all here knew that the House of the Laurel counted no traitors among its number, perhaps because the real traitor, a murderous one at that, resided in their very midst, as their staunch ally.

Out loud, she said, 'There is but one Cousland who could possibly remain. Just one who could've been beyond the teyrn's reach. And he vanished a long time ago under . . . mysterious circumstances.'

Isala'k shrugged her massive shoulders. 'So a man with a name which is recognised returns. That doesn't explain why half of you are just shy of soiling your pants.'

Instead of outrage at the accusation of this ignorant outsider, everyone remained silent, cowed. Cauthrien gulped, had to fill the cramped space of the tent with words to distract. 'There is history there, Isala'k.' History many are hesitant to voice out loud. 'Even as a boy, Araris Cousland was lauded as a keen intellect. But that's all there was. Until he partook in a tournament and . . . surprised . . . everyone. Gossip had it that he was fated to become the late King's Blade's successor.' _A man truly worthy of the station, not only because of his military acumen, but also because of his skill as a swordsman. _

All those years ago, Cauthrien, too, alongside her teacher and mentor, Ser Maraigne, had partaken in the notorious tournament which people never seemed to be able to strike from their minds. She'd met him in the semi-final, with Ser Maraigne already in the final, as was expected of his station as King's Blade, at the time.

There she met Araris Cousland for the first and only time in her life. Something that'd be remedied soon, it appeared.

Cauthrien and the Cousland boy had circled each other, probed defences with aimed strikes and slashes, parries and ripostes. Then she'd pressed the attack, saw him retreat step after step from her onslaught. When she spotted the misstep with which he was about to undo his participation in the final round, she'd pounced at his weakness. Yet, all along, he'd misled her like a fool. Played her like a finely tuned instrument, responding to his every touch, to every subtle shift. The misstep only a clever feint, he recovered with a swiftness that seemed inhuman. And his sword flashed in the sunlight. Soon after, Cauthrien had to concede him as her better and yield, so pressured had she been by the speed with which he guided his steel.

But her duel against him had been nothing in compare to that against Ser Maraigne. Till this day, she'd never witnessed anything alike.

'I see the look of defeat in your eyes,' said Isala'k, studying her intently.

Commander Iskara seemed to take pity, for which a flare of loathing jerked through Cauthrien, 'When a boy of seventeen winters bests even the at-the-time King's Blade at a tournament, there is no shame in defeat.' Cauthrien nailed the elderly commander with a stare, but his focus resided elsewhere. She didn't need his pity, didn't want it. She was his general. His King's Blade!

Something simultaneously soft and hard danced and swirled in the qunari's eyes. 'There is never shame in defeat. As long as it doesn't break you.' She paused. 'Did it break you, King's Blade?'

Now, unsurprisingly, with only as much vigour as decorum demanded it, outraged cries filled the tent with raucous clamour. Cauthrien calmed her fellow countrymen by raising her hands, bidding them to settle down.

Staring into Isala'k's eyes, unashamed, she said, 'It is a justified question. And in times like these, justified questions, _hard_ questions are what we need to prevail. And for us to prevail in this hour where the strength of our faith in the one true god is tested, questions such as these mustn't be ignored, but rather answered truthfully, unerringly, and without pride or arrogance.'

All of her command staff calmed down again, took their seats, hushed by her unwavering voice. At that heartbeat, Cauthrien realised that shame indeed did not linger in her heart any longer. She'd triumphed.

The words came easy. For the first time.

'No, it did not break me. It taught me a lesson. That I should not be afraid to ask where my knowledge could not guide me. For if I draw back on pride and arrogance, then only defeat lies ahead. I realised that I am not an unconquerable swordswoman. I realised that in asking for help lies no shame.'

Isala'k nodded once, the motion heavy with meaning.

'Then, Ser Cauthrien, Blade of the King-Regent, you are a woman I can follow. I say we march upon this Cousland fiend with determination and caution, just as we have until now.'

A chorus of solemn ayes answered the mercenary commander's proposition. Across the table, Commander Iskara smiled at Cauthrien, lowering his head in deference.

The armed forces of the crown advanced slowly in the days to come, taking far longer than they'd planned to.

**.**

**.**

Farah'an teetered through the encampment. The sun died in stray feathers of pink and violet over the tapered palisades erected at the western edge of the encampment. The smell of incense clung to her nose with a burning ferocity.

Farah'an had tried to calm her mind and body back in her tent, thick blankets of smoke from the burning sticks filling the insides of the heavy canvas of her tent. Alas, nothing came of it, her mind found no solace in meditation.

Wandering the muddy tracks of the royal army's camp, she absentmindedly watched the men and women, huddling around fires, hiding under layers of cloth and pelts, talking the night away with good humour which would soon leave them. Somewhere a blacksmith was still at work, hammering steel. Horses nickered and stamped or munched on apples or grass. Occasional throngs of soldiers stumbled around, keeping each other barely upright, bottles brandished like a weapon, babbling in drunken stupor, singing their momentary merriment.

She passed them unmolested and ducked inside the tent. Relief washed through her when she found the interior empty bar the lone figure resting on a stretcher in the shadows.

Upending an empty bucket, Farah'an sat at the comatose Commander Fledg's side.

She surveyed his prone form. Hairs singed off, skin of his once handsome face twisted and warped into a hideous mask.

Farah'an gulped and averted her gaze. Suddenly she felt like an intruder. Found herself talking.

'Of course, there lies shame in defeat. The greatest of all, in fact,' she told him, eyes lowered and unfocused. 'We of the Isala'keii know this best. Victory or defeat is our very livelihood, you know.'

Grabbing her wrist, she curled and uncurled her fist, bones popping. 'I did not tell her that. But I'm sure you understand. It wasn't what she needed to her. What they all needed to hear. But you humans prefer lies when they suit your purpose. I merely deemed a lie more suitable than the truth.' Farah'an shrugged, cast him a glance. Why could he not move, twitch, something at least to let her know that this defeat of his would not utterly break his will to live?

'You wrap layers of lies around you, guard them with your faith in a harsh god who does not listen to your prayers, and proclaim them as nothing less but the absolute measure of truth. The end of all things. You throw your beliefs at the whole world and hope they stick.'

It spilled out now, dark like red wine out of an uncorked bottle.

'If not you come bearing the gift of holy revelation and the light of the Flaming Sword of your beloved Andraste. To enlighten the heathen and bring your god's wisdom into the farthest corners of the world. Spread your sophistication. Spread civilisation.'

Farah'an looked the young commander in his burnt out eyes. They'd probably sizzled and popped with a sickly wet plop whilst he screamed out his lungs.

She sighed heavily. 'But civilisation is a sham. Another lie you tell yourself, a blanket to cover up the fact that you are just whooping tribesmen lusting after violence and the blood-spilling it breeds. All you accomplished, the grandeur you call civilisation, is simply another veil to hide the truth behind fancy words. And that is all you've mastered better than the rest of the races of Thedas. Language, and how to deceive others and yourself with it.'

Farah'an scratched the nape of her neck, dug her fingers into her hairline. 'The Kgatii among the Isala'keii, the thousand, that is, who are worthy to bear their rank on their masks, have been stripped of such profanity. We are the chosen of our people. We are the conditioned. Our lives are dedicated to the way of the blade. Not to the spilling of blood. Not to violence. Not to slaughter. To the purity of steel.'

'We are taught nothing else from childbirth. Thus we know nothing else. No distractions, no impediments. Our mind is cleared and our limbs conditioned to become worthy of guiding steel with our movements. Of becoming one with it. Becoming the weapon, not merely the wielder. And steel permits no defeat.'

'_Never_.'

Or Par Vollen would've been long lost and the Arishok would've not called for a perfunctory invasion. But an invasion in truth.

Farah'an flew to her feet, wanting to leave the oppression of this place. The sickness of undesired melancholy it infected her with. The whorl of unfamiliar depths it dragged her down to.

At the entrance she stopped, reconsidered and said, 'But then again. I am denounced as renegade to my people.'

**.**

**.**

It did something to him.

This place. This position. Denial would be easy, but his mind was too acutely aware of the facts it faced. His ruthless self-awareness squashed any attempt at driving it from conscious thought. It'd only nag, on a layer hidden from the forefront until it drove back and blast through the portcullis he had lowered.

Some subtle change he underwent, which not even Araris himself, in his endless musings managed to clearly identify as of yet. It eluded him. A fact which irked him beyond compare.

The way they bowed, how they lowered their eyes when he nailed them with a stare, how they grovelled and appeased, all those things lashed through him with a satisfying flicker of narcissistic fulfilment. Rumours about him already ran amok in the camp of the rebel host. _His_ host.

Araris didn't deny the way this obedience made him feel, he acknowledged it and moved on.

But there was something else. Unnamed, setting his limbs on tingling fire, the sensation crawling up and down his arms, clawing deep fissures and empty graves into the back of his head, rearranging tissue.

Mayhap it stemmed from his unabated dominance over the demonic fraternity of woodcutters. But the effort to maintain their tethers to bind them to his will cost him no more than a few heartbeats of conscious effort a day. More when he issued new orders for them to carry out like the good lapdogs they were.

His sorcerous affinity had improved with the minute pulses of power he cowed them with, the subtle weavings of his power projected over a distance. Or, maybe, he'd always had it in him. It's not like he professed his use of magic openly. After all, they were the very reason why he chose self-imposed exile over imprisonment in one of the Circles a decade ago.

It surely would settle things far quicker if, instead of implying more mundane methods like the flesh and steel of his followers, he drew on the chaotic energies of the Fade and unleash them. Though the promise of templar mage-hunters hot on his heels didn't sound particularly inviting to him. Especially since they'd see his magic not only as blasphemy but something beyond that, something they didn't want to understand. In ignorance, extermination comes easier. Vile deeds become less vile to the inflictor.

Something it did to him.

Araris knew not what. It was nothing physical, of that he was sure. The change transcended him. Was more and less at the same time. Something he could not grasp.

Steps outside, nearing. They were unmistakable. The deep etched military gait, the straightened back, chin held high in defiance. The salute of the two Mortal Swords outside accredited his conjecture.

'Bars. Good evening. How stand things?'

Dark-skinned fist pounded against his leather jerkin, the lightweight mail rustling underneath with the movement's motion. 'Your Lordship. Worse than hoped. Better than expected.'

Araris let go of a throaty laugh, let the hysteria of illusive thoughts and unclaimed understanding from afore seep out somewhere in between. 'Very good. Please.' He gestured, open palmed. 'Have a seat. Would you care for a drink, captain?'

Shaking his shaved head, Bars said, 'No, Your Lordship. I'm good, thank you.'

Araris poured himself a goblet full of red wine and rejoined the captain of the Mortal Swords at the parchment-ridden table in the dancing light of countless candles, wax gathering at their honey-coloured base.

'Tell me then, Bars. What can I expect to work with?' Araris took a sip from the goblet, savoured the taste, rolling it around like measuring words on his tongue.

'Well, sire, as much as can be expected. They're simple folk. But I guess I've already managed to pound the gravitas of their current situation into their thick skulls.'

Araris said, 'To hear they'd be fighting and to know are two different things.'

'Exactly, Your Lordship. I had them square off in squads against my men. They learned the lesson quickly. You could see the realisation settle in.'

Araris nodded, having predicted something along the lines. 'I'm not asking you to teach them to lead a victory parade through the streets of Denerim, Bars,' he reminded. 'Just get them to march in a straight line and not fall onto their own swords while they're at it.'

The man traced the criss-crossing patterns of light scars on his forearms. 'Aye, sire. Sadly, time is not our ally in this matter.'

Araris waved it away, with no more concern than a tutor refuting a pre-adolescent pupil's misconceptions. 'We'll have enough time, captain. And even if time might not be on our side, desperation is. And if anything, desperation is a particularly inciting motivator.'

'Aye, sire, as you say. It shall be so. I will work day and night to whip these bloody peasants into a shape deserving the name militia.'

'Very good, Captain Bars. There's one more matter I wish to inform you of.'

Bars managed to appear even more attentive than just a moment before, having caught the scent of one of his commanding officer's schemes like a bloodhound. 'There's a change of attire I wish to see happen on the day of the battle. I am informing you now so that you may have a chance to cover the necessary logistics beforehand.'

The stone-coloured eyes sparked. 'A change of attire, my lord?'

The vicious grin slowly spread Captain Bar's hard features as Araris shared one of his myriad sleight-of-hand intentions for the upcoming engagement, settled there and wouldn't leave. It was infectious.

They shared in their scheming, plotting like two maddened sorcerers, and hiding in the secret laboratory at the top of their decrepit tower.

Then, Araris said, 'If there is nothing else, captain.'

Nodding, the man rose with military ease, helm under his arm and offered him a good night's sleep. As if that'd be a possibility any time in the future.

Right.

Araris returned his attention to a report by one of the scouting parties send out to assess the King's Blade's course of approach, broke the seal and unfolded the missive.

Raised his eyes, when the rustle of canvas stayed absent. Back turned to Araris, muscles in his shoulders and back taunt, Bars stood before the rolled-down flaps, keeping the night's cool temperatures at bay.

Araris drew a sliver of power, tasting the air for the hair-splitting shifts of emotional state in the man.

Pouring a hefty dose of good-heartedness into his speech, careful to keep the iron timbre of battlefield command voice stored away, Araris said, 'Captain, is there something unsatisfactory with the entrance to my tent?'

The man went rigid, than calmed his stance, turned around, uncharacteristically hesitant and bashful.

'No, Your Lordship,' he started. 'Your tent's state is not on my mind.' He looked down, clutched the rim of his helm in a white-knuckled grip.

Araris stood, approached Bars, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Catching his eyes, drawing their focus in, Araris said, low and with faked warmth, 'Just spill it, Bars.' A smile for good measure.

'I have to confess something, Your Lordship. Something I should've told you. Was _obliged_ to tell you on the day you arrived.'

Bars gulped, visibly gathered his courage, features bracing. 'You have a sister, my lord. I truly know not if she lives, but I believe so. She left for Orlais a few months ago, to study at the University.'

'Her name is Elissa.'

The rest drifted off into vagueness, gathered by some attentive part of Araris mind, to await examination later.

_Elissa_.

Not the Last Laurel, after all.


	20. The Incremental Moving Of Pieces

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes._

_I want to thank Guest, Serithus, _lupusadaquilonem,_ and Theodur for reviewing the last chapter, as well as all you others out there reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story._

_Sorry. Just sorry. I'm not dead. Neither is this story._

_Enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XX **

**The Incremental Moving Of Pieces**

**.**

**.**

'What do you mean?'

Rain thrummed against the flapping canvas of the comely tavern tent, creating a sound close to a score of bats zigzagging through the night on quick wing-beats. Rows of benches stood arrayed around tables or surrogates thereof. Lanterns cast the interior into isles of warm light, the gloom in between like dark oceans separating vast continental swaths of different peoples.

A few patrons milled about, quietly sipping on tankards of stale ale or nibbling on blocks of clammy cheese and hard bread. Others traded stories, tales, and rumours, all which came to mind which they had heard, if only to take them away from the present for a night. Faked laughter ebbed up and down the row of wooden benches, like the coming and going of an undecided breeze, drifting here and there. The display of bravado, which none of the men and women here truly felt sent jolts of discomfort through Anethayín's slim frame.

The heavy-lidded woman opposite her, mulled over how to answer her question, biting her full lips. Anethayín never quite managed to tear her gaze off those lips, especially when the self-proclaimed merchantwoman from Denerim began to speak in her melodious voice. She'd make a great troubadour with that voice, Anethayín was sure of that much.

Lim, for by that unusual name the woman had introduced herself, said, 'Is it not obvious?'

'You spoke about a sure defeat.' Dangerous words right now. 'How is this obvious?' Anethayín cast a glance around at the huddled figures. 'I see a people worn and battered. But already defeated, broken? This I don't see.'

Lim shrugged, a remnant merchant nonchalance in the dismissiveness of the gesture, even though all her wares and equipment had been taken by the civil war. 'They cling on in desperation, to hope. But all of them know, deep down. Everybody always says that war needs coin, coin, and even more coin. That might be true on the surface. But look deeper and you see that most of the coin is spent on food for the people, on oxen, horses, and mules to carry all that food on a prolonged march. And then all those oxen, horses, and mules need food as well.'

Lim gestured, as if everything explained itself. 'This army has no coin to speak of. Even if it had, there are no suppliers to be found which would trade with them in fear of the crown's punishment, much less a single supplier who could even supply an army of this size. The provisions this army has are dwindling by the day, soon into nonexistence. And that's when the realisation will finally hit home.'

'When doubt turns into fear.' She mimicked a frightened voice, another one of her talent's. '_We're all going to starve to death!_ Those who don't, will fall under the King's Blade's steel, begging for sweet relief soon enough.'

'If you say so.' Anethayín buried her face in the tankard, gulped down the puddle of stale ale still inside. She'd spoke with many of the followers of this ill-fated human congregation during the last few days, aimlessly wandering and exploring the camp, always trying to stay far away from the quarantined pockets of sickness currently beleaguering the host. The butcher's son, red-rimmed nose and freckled skin, still a boy, playing in the mud with his friends. The stories his father and mother had told him during bedtime of the noble Cousland family and their shining example of a son, Araris.

'_ave you 'eard of 'im? _he asked, then immediately blabbed on, _I sees 'im at the great fire. I bes like 'im one day._

The handsome youth, strength still growing in his lean-muscled limbs, a Waking Sea soldier, a glow in his eyes when he talked about Bann Alfstanna, his liege, or Fergus Cousland who led the gathered armed forces of the north to Ostagar. That his good nature hadn't been eradicated by the events at Ostagar spoke to an oily spot deep inside Anethayín, nearly lit it by throwing a burning match of passion into it. They'd smoked the night away with a number of Anethayín's spindleweed twigs, splayed on their sleeping mats, heads together as they stared up at the passage of stars and time. At the approach of dawn and steel.

Anethayín did not believe in Lim's view of how things stood, and how they'd turn out, as she claimed. Should've become a soothsayer or better yet a doomsayer. With her enthralling voice she'd surely make a living out of it somehow.

With broken fingernails, Lim scratched something into the wooden table. Or maybe she tried to excavate something hidden. Lost hope, maybe? Could be she just hid her fear behind a front of cutting pessimism, or unpleasant truth as she'd undoubtedly call it. Still scratching, the woman looked up, her tone matter-of-fact, and spoke, 'You don't believe me, do you?'

'What gave it away?'

A sneer broke through the haughty merchant façade, bringing uncalled for delight to Anethayín, which she quenched with an inner smile.

'And I thought you more capable of understanding our predicament than all these other simpletons. Seems you are just another knife-ear, knowing nothing of the world.'

Anethayín rode the insult out, like hundreds of times before. Spied the insurrectional twine knotted into the insult. And everything else Lim said. Thankfully, one couldn't stumble on familiar territory. 'Seems so.'

Lim huffed, got up, eased the wrinkles out of her clothes. 'Fine, then. Rot with the rest of them as corpses. You'll see.' She practically marched off.

'Good night to you too, then,' murmured Anethayín, checking once again the contents of her tankard. With a girlish pout she accredited the absence of liquid courage.

Letting loose a world-weary sigh unbefitting of her age, the elven minstrel pushed off the table and made to follow the Denerim merchantwoman turned refugee. Drawing up her hood, lighting a spindleweed twig at one of the lanterns, Anethayín set off and out into the downpour.

Then it hit her.

_Ah, fuck._

_Rain._

Not a nice time to play spy.

**.**

**.**

Names have power.

Grant power.

If you can name things then you possess an inherent power over them. They could not hide in anonymity. They must face your penetrating gaze and answer the call.

And this particular name bounced back off the palatial caverns of his mind in an endless reiterative loop. Haunted him like a ghost through long corridors, trailed by a gown of spectral whispers. Darted after him as screams, cutting through the idle quiet holding court above the terracotta roofs, screams which shook the foundations to the very core. Rattling at beams, rattling at normality, rattling at sanity.

With every screeching loop came possibilities, outcomes, opportunities, ramifications, costs to be paid, and a multi-faceted myriad of more variables, growing a huge tree of paths, would-ifs, could-ifs, should-ifs that would take a lifetime to map out for the average minded. Thousands of coiled thoughts folded upon themselves, metamorphosed into pathways.

Leaning his head back against the rim of the bathtub, inhaling the rose-perfumed scent of the water with a sudden fit of laughable hysteria, Araris embraced the limitless iterations and permutations of that name.

_Elissa_. A frightened girl in need of her brother.

_Elissa_. An emotionless girl plotting to burn her own country.

_Elissa_. A dead girl, a corpse in a ditch somewhere, forgotten.

Araris let them take root; grow branches and leaves, likely and unlikely futures and pasts which could someday become the present of his little sister.

Orlais. The famed University where the grandest minds teach all sorts of theoretical and practical disciplines to the few who are accepted as worthy, most by blood, few by intellect. It spoke tomes that the Orlesians had not only offered a place but extended an invitation to an outlander girl of about a decade old, more or less, Araris did not know exactly. He too had been offered a spot in the University of Orlais, though apparently a few years later than his little sister. His father had once told him of the opportunity as he read aloud one of the missives exchanged with Empress Celene. Maybe it was just that letter which Howe found and used as so-called irrefutable evidence of his family's treachery. But then again, in the end, it mattered not. Neither the invitation to join the University, for soon after his abilities first started to manifest. Nor what Howe used in the end to convince a man as rigid as Loghain to sign off on the cold-blooded slaughter of his family. In the end, all of them would pay for their crimes, when he carved out their hearts and the hearts of their sons and daughters and served them to the pigs. No grand gesture needed.

He'd already had the current permutations, actions, and possibilities clamped down on, the shortest path set, the pieces on the board moved in position. Only to find out that there existed another, previously unseen layer to the board and the rules changed irrefutably.

But the shortest path couldn't be avoided or deterred any longer, not for a girl, not even for his sister. The long-term consequences in the aftermath of all this slowly took on a new shape, would form a clearer picture in the days to come, until they possessed a crystalline glint around every contour and edge, the gleam of an unconditional outcome that brokered no steering off course. Besides, leaving either Howe or Loghain alive posed as much a danger to him, as it posed to Elissa.

Footsteps, so silent, so perfectly calculated that only his subtly weaved sorcerous wards alarmed him to the presence. Not from the front of the tent, where the entrance's cloth flaps were rolled shut to allow for some privacy, but from some walled-off compartment at the back. Araris remained silent, eyes closed, for all outwards appearances enjoying his bath perfumed with rose and jasmine.

Drawing a sliver of his power, his senses sharpened to a predatory animalistic perception. The exited heartbeat like a drum, the nimble surety of foot, the smell of lightly rancid breath, the wheezing intake of air, deep down in the lungs. She even managed to silently ease herself onto the stool on the far-end of the tent, just a few paces removed from the tip of the wooden tub.

Eyes closed, Araris murmured, as if deeply relaxed by the warm water's effect on his tensed muscles, 'It appears to me that the Captain Bars lied blatantly to my face.'

Short gulp, a missed heartbeat, sudden sweat lingered in the air, hesitation. The woman remained silent, probably too confused.

Araris opened his eyes, regarded her steadily. Her face flushed, from exhaustion and something else, pupils dilated, lids hanging heavy, accomplishing with the kohl smeared around her large eyes a sultry look. Like that unfocused and willing look so many whores adopted to lure customers. 'He assured me of the unblemished perfection of the state of my tent's entrance. Yet, here you are, obviously preferring to enter through the back. Tell me, why is that, Anethayín?'

The elven minstrel, soaked from the downpour outside, leaned back and folded her arms, frowning at him. 'How did you hear me?'

Araris let his head fall back again, peering at the ceiling. 'I did not hear you, Anethayín. But I smelled you. You smell like a brewery inside of which a tobacco plantation has been burned down.'

She chortled a laugh, coughed there at the end, doubled over. Once recovered, Anethayín sat back up straight, lit another twig and said through the smoke, 'Fuck you.'

'That wouldn't achieve anything, I'm afraid.'

Deep intake of air, sucking the smoke to nestle in the twin caverns, then merciful relief. Curlicues of smoke drifted like clouds to the ceiling, the distinct odour of spindleweed filling the tent.

'Oh, it would achieve something, all right,' Anethayín said, speech slurred by the drug.

When Araris next looked at her between the heels of his feet, propped up on the rim of the bathtub, Anethayín had snatched his towel and rubbed her drenched hair dry. Araris rolled his eyes, smiling lightly.

Towel draped over her neck like a shawl, the she-elf stared at him, smoke rising in veils between them. Her dark eyes wandered, regardless of modicum.

'Do I have something on my face?' asked Araris, a bit more ill-tempered than intended.

She didn't seem to notice. Anethayín spoke, silent, as if alone. 'All those scars. By the Dread Wolf. I sometimes forget . . .'

'Forget what?'

His voice startled her. 'Uh, nothing.' She cocked her head, long hair splaying down with the tilt. The cheekiness returned suddenly, like a mask put on. With a smile, she slurred, deliberately this time, 'How about I join you? Tell you all about my recent adventures.'

'Just hand me the towel, Anethayín.' Her smile brightened.

'Shy? Are we, Your All-Outshining Star-Like Radiance Araris of House Cousland, first of his name, prince of broken hearts and many tears shed?'

'Just. Give me. The towel.'

Anethayín stood, extravagantly slow, and sauntered over to him, beaming with mirth. 'There you go again, squashing the hopes of another damsel. Another heart broken. I only wanted to smell nice.' Her smile grew even larger. 'But I guess it's alright if you do. At least one of us smells like a woman.'

She held out the towel, just in reach. Araris snatched it out of her hands with a growl. Climbed out of the tub and wrapped the thick piece of absorbent cloth around his hips, all the while watching Anethayín's eyes as she watched him, unashamed.

Despite himself, he couldn't stay mad. When he snorted a laugh, she grinned back up at him at the sound.

'So why are you here?'

'Other than to ogle you and gather some material for adult stories for all the lonely women of your host? Oh, just came to tell you that your spymistress did as you asked of her and found a rather angrily acting spy. Followed her to her tent, searched her belongings, and pocketed some of the shinier ones, then left to report back to you.' She drew on her twig, added, 'Your Lordship.'

Araris bared his teeth like a wolf would his fangs. More implications, more branches upon the branch which had already matured in his mind.

'Excellent. Find out as much about her as you can. Maybe you'll even find some of the others. If so, memorise them. I want to let some of our plans be moved through them to Cauthrien.'

'Figured you already had a plan.'

Araris nodded. 'You've a few days before it comes to that, though.'

'Alright.' She shrugged her slim shoulders. 'I'll see what I can do.'

'Very well. I'll tell you what to let slip anyway. But, before that. Want to hop in now?' Araris tilted his head at the tub.

Eager smile, white teeth showing. 'Sure.' Her cloak was already thrown over the stool she had occupied before.

'I'm going to brew you an herbal infusion.' Araris made for the back of the tent, was stopped by her retort.

'Not going to join me?' She actually sounded disappointed.

'I want you to _sober_ up, Anethayín. Not fuck you 'til the sun is up.'

More garments being shed off in a rustle of cloth. 'Your choice. Want to wash and braid my hair, maybe?'

The absurdity finally got to him, made him laugh.

The guards outside must think him insane.

**.**

**.**

The night belonged only to some creatures. Its calm blanket of stillness, the hush of nothing human rushing about in fruitless labour. A silence broken only by those whom the night called companions. Those who called the night home. Who breathed and begat shadow, who felt its soothing touch like an unabashed display of intimacy.

Lim, despite being a spy of the crown, didn't much love night time. Her covers mostly called her to adapt to human interaction, the bustle of marketplaces filled with shouting and haggling over prices, and the occasional appearance of local guardsmen intervening in the name of order and law. Creeping around like a rat, with an insufferable tension between her shoulders that gave her constant headaches, she found herself unsuitable for. This act she played, being out after curfew with no good reason to wander the rebel encampment, drove jitters into her limbs which didn't stem from the falling temperatures outside.

Every owl observing her passage from afar with black eyes reflecting moonlight, every squirrel climbing up dark trees to have a go at their scored nuts in piece, every bat zig-zagging across the sky made her jump.

And while Lim believed in what she did, in the righteousness of her actions, of her cause, she couldn't await the day, the mere moment when all this had passed behind her. Onto the lane of the past, etched with the corpses of those who surrounded her.

As a woman walking down a street alone at night, no matter the city, town or backwater village was a terrifying experience. Her profession, in her current circumstances, doubled, tripled, quadrupled the fear.

Having no one to talk to didn't much help either. All in the interest of keeping the entirety of the crown's spy-ring installed in the rebel camp alive. Compartmentalisation at its finest. If one of them—for there were more spies besides her, of that Lim was sure—got caught, the rest of them hadn't to abandon their efforts.

Some fireplaces were still crowded, mostly by guards, cycling through their patrol routes, hoping to catch some warmth before walking the camp. Lim kept away from them as far as possible, traversing the labyrinth of fires and gloomy tents. She'd have to dispatch a raven soon. So much to inform the King's Blade of. The death of the magi, the return of a Cousland, a man who brought this entire mottled band calling themselves a host to heel in a few days. Not a good trade in her opinion. She'd have to do it tonight.

This message must reach the crown's forces without delay.

Cloth brushing, a whisper in the air. Lim froze, petrified with terror. Quickly she dashed in between a row of tents, crouching.

Up ahead, a tall figure, stepped outside, obscured by a heavy cloak, hood drawn up. Head turning left and right with hawk-like precision, then turned, and marched away, footsteps completely inaudible. A creature of the night.

Lim crouched between the tents until her muscles hurt with exhaustion. She didn't even possess the strength to get up anymore, she just slumped onto the ground, trying to stabilise her breathing after forcing it to be at for so long.

Whilst she couldn't identify the figure, Lim knew whom the tent belonged to.

_Bann Ackley._

All she'd to exhibit now was patience, watching the bann and what events would surround him in the days to come.

**.**

**.**


	21. Trust Easily Given

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes._

_I want to thank _Serithus_ and _lupusadaquilonem _for taking the time to review the last chapter, as well as all you others out there reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story!_

On another note:_ let it be known that with this sentence I shamelessly promote the existence of my virgin tumblr blog (under the URL: fjunn . tumblr . com) where I ramble, muse, write, and generally do . . . stuff. I'll probably post bits and pieces which didn't make it into any of my fanfics there and I also thought about enriching my blog with some kind of codex entries for my stories. Let me know what you think of these ideas and if you have any ideas of your own, suggestions or wishes do not hesitate to share them with me._

_Without further ado, enjoy the latest chapter of a book written in an age full of heroes._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XXI **

**Trust Easily Given**

**.**

**.**

The commotion carried over a remarkable portion of the rebel encampment. No wonder, since the gathered crowd of common soldiery, farmers, butchers, smiths, husbands, wives, daughters and children—all of them dirt-smeared and with heavy bags under their tired eyes—turned out to be quite large. The rest of the way news spread like wildfire via the quick and seldom considerate gossiping of wagging human tongues. Soon the muddy courtyard, still hardened by the low temperatures of night, and hidden behind the tapered palisades was packed so dense movement seemed impossible. Or, at least, improper.

Lim somehow managed to shoulder her way to a position on a nearby flat hill, overlooking the south-eastern gate, allowing her partial view of the events unfolding below.

In customary grey leathers over blackened chain, two scores of the infamous Mortal Swords, the élites of Highever alone held the onlookers back. Without so much as a raised eyebrow and without physical application of force, simply through mere presence of the well-known company the crowd was kept in check. The common folk, be they average soldier or civilian, kept their distance from the grim-faced veterans. Whether out of respect of fear, Lim couldn't decipher.

The pale-haired figure of Araris Cousland, skin covered in a criss-crossing web of slowly fading scars, patiently waited in the middle of the courtyard, towering over anyone nearby.

Someone bumped into Lim's shoulder, intentionally. 'Hey there, rude one.'

Lim looked down. Found the elven minstrel Anethayín from a few nights ago staring up at her with entrancing eyes. Not without effort, Lim broke her connection with the elf's depthless eyes, deciding to ignore the woman for now.

'Nothing's changed then,' said Anethayín, matter-of-fact. 'Once rude, always rude. So . . . what's got everyone so riled up?'

Lim crunched her teeth. 'Don't know. Just got here myself.'

Anethayín made a non-committal sound in her throat. 'Well, uh, how 'bout you describe it to me. It's not like I'm tall enough to see what's happening and, sadly, I've left my wooden box to step on behind.'

Lim would've loved to slap the woman into silence. And, maybe, do something more later on in the confines of her tent. She sorely needed the release. Lim shook her head, as if that'd clear her mind. Besides, slapping the elvish minstrel in open daylight, surrounded by a good portion of the entire rebel host didn't seem very clever. The beloved status of Anethayín among the peasantry had been one of the reasons why Lim had approached her in the first place to fish for any scrap of information.

For now, Lim confined herself to the physical release of her inner stress by sighing her current misgivings. 'It's our esteemed leader, Araris Cousland. He's just standing there, surrounded by a bunch of his personal bloodhounds. Appreciating the sunrise, is my guess, or just waiting. Could be either of them. Looks ready to make a speech, though.'

Anethayín chuckled beside her. The sound bespoke knowledge beyond the name. Lim scratched her brow.

'Do you know him?'

'Of course I do. Everybody here knows Araris Cousland,' said Anethayín.

Lim rolled her eyes. 'I'm aware of that. But do you know him beyond his name?'

Lim felt the elven travelling minstrel shrugging. 'Brushed shoulders with him on one or two occasions.'

_Interesting_. She'd have to pick Anethayín's brains about that. 'What's he like? Up close, I mean. As a person.'

'Not much different than he appears from a distance. Level-headed, is the best I can describe him. Why, dearest Lim?' Anethayín playfully elbowed her side, a goofy expression on her face. 'Fancy a romantic night with candles and wine with our lord and saviour?'

Lim snorted a laugh. _I'd rather do you._ Movement behind Araris Cousland pulled Lim back from the precipice of a daydream fantasy and the blossoming itch between her legs.

'Other worthies are gathering down there,' said Lim, more to herself than the woman beside her. _What's this? Public spectacle? Marching orders?_ No, none of that sat quite right with her. Yet, in a way, all of it did.

The creak of metal hinges and the crunch of splintering wood alerted her to the opening gate, as a small section of the south-eastern palisade parted and granted entrance.

'No need to tell me what that was,' said Anethayín, still she tried to peek over the crowd by tiptoeing around like a drunk.

Astride a horse that shook its head in an annoyed fashion, nostrils flaring, a fat man rode in at the head of a small convoy, a faded heraldry of some kind emblazoned on his far too tight breastplate.

A shush overcame the gathering of people as the fat man—a clean-shaved noble—half dismounted and half fell out of his saddle. In the morning quiet his boots broke the thin-iced surface of mud and squelched as the dewed texture beneath sucked them up. He waddled up to Araris Cousland, managing a bow.

'What's happening?' Anethayín sounded positively desperate at the off-chance of missing a vital piece of contemporary gossip.

'Fat noble is talking to Araris Cousland. Came back with an escort of soldiers.'

'What're they doing?'

Lim grimaced. '_Talking_. Fucking quietly, by the looks of it.' _And all the strained ears around me._

The fat man seemed to receive a punch out of nowhere and staggered back, paling, lips quivering. Araris Cousland gestured at the Mortal Swords accompanying him. Then it hit Lim. _The heraldry_. She'd seen it, a few nights ago. Her eyes widened as realization slapped her in the face. Two of the Mortal Swords grabbed Bann Ackley under his armpits and dragged him away. The bann was still too overwhelmed by whatever he'd been accused of to respond in any way. Falsely accused of, Lim reminded herself. The cloaked figure exiting Bann Ackley's tent fresh in her mind.

Araris Cousland turned to the silent crowd, eager for clarification. And it seemed Araris Cousland was inclined to indulge them with a little display. Spectacle, after all.

He let his gaze wander. 'Evidence has been brought to my attention, good people. It seems our friend and ally, Bann Ackley, is in truth a puppet of the crown, taking not only their gold but also the assurance of a royal pardon on the day the traitor Loghain sees us all hanged by the neck!'

Outrage rushed up and the crowd began to seethe and shout, insults were hurled and, if anyone would've come prepared, then more than insults would sail through the air right now, aimed at the hapless bann.

Bann Ackley was a puppet alright. But who was the puppeteer guiding his movements? Loghain? Araris Cousland? Did a royal spy plant false evidence to frame Bann Ackley to escape a bind?

Thankfully, the crowd kept Lim upright as the immediate implications raced through her head, sank in.

_He'll talk. He'll _fucking_ talk._

**.**

**.**

'This is bad.' Leonas Bryland looked up from the yellowed sheets of vellum in his hands.

Alfstanna silently agreed with him. Had voiced her misgivings aloud before, actually.

The midday sun barely brought any real measure of warmth with it. Alfstanna drew her wool shawl tighter around her neck. Leonas and Alfstanna sat outside on a fallen tree, overlooking the Iachus Plains sprawling north and east of them, Araris' command tent at their back on the plateau, which rose from a long, curving hill. At the northern tip of the plateau the decrepit ruin of a small flagstone watchtower rose, claimed by vegetation. A single lookout scanned the horizon, framed by the wind-stretched flag of the laurel wreath, resembling two white wings. The rebel host encampment was a seething mass of movement just over the opposite ridge of the plateau, spreading in a crescent from west to south.

'It's more than bad. It's incriminating.'

Leonas shook his head. 'Do you believe it? I mean, someone could've planted this.'

On the plain expanse stretching below and northward, a battalion-sized group of fishermen, bakers, weavers, gardeners, farmers—all of them peasants forcibly recruited into the militia—waited, equipped with military surplus gear. There was a great deal of shuffling around. Another day, another batch of recruits to be schooled in the art of warfare.

Captain Bars paced in front of them. The dozen or so Highever élites with him silent at his back.

_First lesson! I'm gonna teach you wild-haired peasant lot how to stand like proper soldiers! _He pointed. _You there! That's a shield! So don't carry it like a basket!_

'Does it really matter?'

Leonas threw her a surprised glance. 'Of course it matters.'

Alfstanna shrugged. 'It was found in his tent. It's his handwriting, alright. Believe me, I compared it.'

'All of which can be forged.'

'There's precise mentions of troop movements, strengths, details of meetings. Things only a member of the council could've known.'

Leonas gestured helplessly. 'Any single one of us could've known that. You and I included. Plus, there're always guards around who'd the opportunity to listen in.'

'Now you're reaching.'

Leonas sniffed. 'And you're not. Why so keen on believing, Alfstanna?'

'As I said, it doesn't matter if I believe or not. The evidence's there.'

'Don't feed me that crap. I mean, come on. Ackley? The man's as far from a spy as they get.'

Alfstanna crossed her legs, nodding. 'Which makes him the perfect spy.'

Leonas groaned. 'You're not making this easy.'

'That's not how this works. Besides, we're not the ones who'll judge Ackley.'

'So what?' Leona's voice heated. 'We should just shut our eyes and forget about it?'

'It's Araris' decision,' said Alfstanna, eyeing Captain Bars below as he stalked along the undisciplined line of soon-to-be militiamen, incessantly bellowing his misgivings about posture and stance, physically pushing and shoving the recruits into something resembling a straight line.

'You always were taken by him.'

Something snapped inside Alfstanna. 'What's that supposed to mean?' she growled.

'Ah, Maker give me strength.'

Alfstanna glared. 'The Maker isn't here, Leonas. Answer me.'

'Just that you're falling for his charm. Like you want to. Like everyone else.'

'So now he's at fault for this? That we have a traitor in our very midst. Just how has this anything to do with whatever you think I feel for him?' _Or did you just expect something else from me, something better?_ _Something you'd not do, like stand up to Araris?_

Leonas lifted his hands in mock surrender. 'I'm sorry, Alfstanna. I didn't mean it like that.'

'Yes. You did.'

Leonas sighed. 'Maybe you're right. It's just . . . I don't get why and how everyone so easily accepts this.'

'There're spies in our midst. We knew that. One of them just happens to be Ackley. The world's a shitty place. Don't try to understand it, Leonas. It'll give you a headache,' said Alfstanna.

Leonas seemed content to mull it over in silence.

_Now! Close ranks! Show me you're not the dim-witted fools I think you are!_ Rustle and clank of iron on the grass-tufted plain below. The militiamen formed a wall of shields.

_The fuck is that?! You've more holes than a burnt down hovel some poor beggar uses as make-shift shelter during rain!_ Like a madmen, Captain Bars charged the laughable excuse for a battle-formation, flailing and screaming. The peasants in his immediate path shrunk back.

_Stand your motherfucking ground, you mongrels! You there! Don't lean forward! Broad stance! Didn't you hear a word I said?_ Captain Bars stalked away, shaking his head in theatrical dismay. Stopped in front of the loosely arrayed Mortal Swords under his command.

_Show them._

With drilled combat-smoothness the dozen or so Mortal Swords closed rank within a matter of a few heartbeats. Shields overlapping in a perfect line, shortswords hissed out of scabbards in unison, came to rest atop the rim of their shields. Captain Bars peered over his shoulder, grin on his scarred face. _How many of you just pissed themselves in fear? Now . . ._

The captain of the Mortal Swords of Highever studied his nails with court-mannered aplomb.

_Close ranks!_ Charged the recruits again like a madman. They fared slightly better the second time. The process repeated itself over and over again, like a badly choreographed play.

'I'm sorry, Alfstanna,' murmured Leonas, again. Carried her out of the muck of her far-off thoughts.

'You already apologised.'

Leonas snorted a laugh. 'Not even the Maker could give me the strength to face a woman's anger.'

'That's not anger, Leonas. I'm just annoyed that you'd think my judgement impaired because of Araris.' _Even though you're probably right. Doesn't mean I want to hear it from you._ 'Without Araris we'd all be hopelessly in over our heads.'

Leonas' shoulders sagged. 'Certainly true on my account.'

Alfstanna jerked him out of his misery with a light slap on the backside of his head.

'Oi!'

'Let it rest, Leonas. None of us had a fucking clue how to actually command an army.'

Leonas rubbed his head. 'I wonder how Araris does.'

'Does what?' she asked.

'Know how to command.'

Alfstanna threw him a wry half-smile. 'Maybe it's his charm.'

'Har har. Now you're just poking the wound.'

Alfstanna shrugged, smile resting on her face for a few moments longer.

'By the way, have you talked to him already?'

'Who?'

'Araris,' clarified Leonas.

'No.'

'Shall we?'

Alfstanna scratched her temple. 'Sure.'

Leonas rose, evidence of Ackley's betrayal rolled up in his hand. Alfstanna lingered a few moments.

_Oh, you want to rest? Tired already. Okay then._ _Take a break. _Captain Bars kicked one of the militiamen to the wilted ground. _Gonna ask the King's Blade for a short interlude as well!? You pathetic dogs!_

He fixed the downed peasant with an officer's glare. Spittle flew. _That's not how you fall, soldier! I'm gonna show you how to fall properly. Up! All of you. Time for the second lesson! How to not stab yourself with your own sword when you fall head-over-heel on your arse!_

Alfstanna got up and followed Leonas who waited a short distance away, between her and the sun-bleached command tent. Iron braziers of glowing coal seeped the interior of the tent into drowsy warmth. It hit Alfstanna again. Araris, still looking oddly out of place, like an Avvar chieftain, handed a missive to a young errand boy. Sent him off with a wave.

Gaze seizing up both of them, Araris returned to his table. Grabbed hold of one of many feather quills, dipping it into a stained bottle of ink. Began writing, scratching a piece of paper with seamless motions.

'Leonas. Alfstanna.' They bowed. 'You are here because of Bann Ackley?' Araris' focus remained on writing.

Leonas came up a bit surprised, a frown crinkling his half-Orlesian features.

'We are, your lordship,' said Alfstanna.

Nothing given away behind the careful mask. 'He has already confessed his crimes to me.'

Leonas stuttered, 'He . . . he what?'

'Granted, some promise of harm befalling his family was necessary. But, in the end, he confessed to being a royal spy.' Araris looked up shortly, continued writing, wearing an avuncular smile of small satisfaction.

'Not only that. It seems Bann Ackley was placed in command of the spy-ring infiltrating our camp. He handed me names and locations of all royal spies at his disposal.'

Alfstanna pointedly eyed Leonas, brows raised. But, by the looks of it, he was preoccupied with utter disbelief puddling around his thoughts.

Leonas jerked his head in tiny increments. 'That's . . . that's . . .'

'I had a hard time believing it too, Leonas,' said Araris. 'I've already drawn up the paperwork and delivered it to Bann Ackley to be signed. In exchange the rest of his family will be pardoned and exiled.'

_The errant boy._

'I'll personally execute him on charges of high treason tomorrow. His former status as bann grants him that much, at least.'

Araris put the quill to rest, scrutinised them with pale eyes. 'If there's nothing else?'

Leonas and Alfstanna retreated from the tent in dumbfounded silence.

**.**

**.**

Lim had to get the fuck out of here.

No amount of money, no amount of loyalty to the crown could bind her to this place for a single moment any longer. What worth her loyalty and all the payment in Thedas if she didn't live to benefit from it.

Hastily, she stuffed what few belongings she possessed into a satchel, procured some provisions for the journey, and strapped it all to her horse. Breath plumed from black nostrils as the beast shook its elongated head.

Lim had lingered too long, dared too much. Still the terror shook through her bones at the knowing look Araris Cousland had pierced her with. His blade still wet with the blood of Bann Ackley. It made no difference to her if the late bann really had been reached by the crown first, his services secured with promises of a pardon, titles, and coin or if, as Lim suspected, he acted only as piece to be sacrificed on Cousland's board, drawing out the real spies infesting his rebellion like unwanted weed in a carefully tended-to vegetable garden.

Araris Cousland knew. His intense pale eyes told her as much. Somehow, he _motherfucking_ knew her to be a spy in service to Loghain.

For good measure, Lim checked the slim blade, sheath hitched to the belt at her hip, for its sharpness. The cold piece of steel gave her some kind of comfort, assurance that she wasn't completely helpless. Lies, Lim knew, but comforting ones, at the very least. So she let them wash over her, soothe her frantically beating heart with false promises of security. Just like those the crown had promised her.

Lim saddled her horse, and swung herself astride, kicking her mount into a trot, out of the encampment.

It all came crashing down on her. Lim's head swam, her vision lurched and tilted with the blooming understanding that she'd always been merely a small cog of a much larger machine, a cog easily replaced. Neither loyalist nor rebel cared much for her life and at the news of her sudden passing either of them would nod, already pushing aside the fact, forgetting. Forgetting her deeds, good and bad, forgetting her service or disservice, forgetting her, forgetting Lim.

Because her life was worth so little to them.

A cause was only worth as much as its followers. But if the cause itself did not honour its followers accordingly, then the followers wouldn't honour it either when push came to shove.

And, Lim finally decided, the cause of Loghain Mac Tir, the usurper on the throne—for usurper he was—wasn't worth honouring. Neither was that of Araris Cousland and his rebel host. All of them they scurried and cried like little, red-nosed children about what rightfully belonged to them, meanwhile men and women died in droves at their behest.

Lim would never again follow. She would not be manipulated into being a puppet to be controlled and discarded when it's outlived its usefulness. She'd be her own woman, choosing her own path, spitting on everyone else in disgust at the adoration displayed to those who'd leash them like slaves to their cause, dragging the carcasses of the fallen like a bloody mantle trailing behind them.

Lim would be her own woman.

Urging her horse to a gallop, Lim rode past an outer picket, sleepy guards leaning onto their halberds crying out in faint surprise. Ducking, to present a smaller target to the air, Lim made for the nearest treeline. She cared not for the direction she travelled in, such trivialities could be decided later. For, finally, she had the freedom to decide such things for herself.

The slave collar torn and left behind in the slowly freezing mud of the Iachus Plain, Lim entered the anonymising gloom projected by the light forest she'd aimed for.

_At last, free!_ Lim exhilarated in the newfound emotions, putting a smile on her lips, as she slowed her horse.

Flash of silver under the cloud-dulled moonlight. Her view tilted curiously. The sensation of falling, toppling off her horse. The sparsely populated, treed canopy above moved in tune to the wind, the rustle of stirred leaves sounding like the ocean. What Lim wouldn't give to see the ocean right now and the endless opportunities it presented.

Lim's mount rode past her, spattered in blood, her headless body astride.

Then absolution.

Of all things.

**.**

**.**

Their elevated pulse, panicked breathing rhythm, and rigid body language had given them away easily enough. Just a simple matter to mark each of them with sorcery so that he'd be able to sniff them out later on.

Sending Ackley away to scout out the Plains and plant the incriminating pieces of forged evidence in his tent had been a necessity. The sacrifice of a pawn. A minor move compared to the entirety of the board. One pawn traded for identifying a score of royal spies.

A bargain well struck.

The white, specked horse grazed in the distance. Headless corpse of the woman he'd just decapitated still astride, slumped forward.

Araris cleaned off the thin trails of blood marring his sword, swiping the blade on the dead woman's matted hair. Kicked the cut-off head into a nearby ditch and clapped the riderless horse on the backside, spurring it into a gallop.

Right about now the Mortal Swords would come down hard on the real royal spies. Those that didn't possess the sensibility to flee like this one had.

Araris only needed to break a few bones, crack a few skulls, and find out what those loyal to Cauthrien and Loghain had managed to report to the King's Blade in time.

Spring in his step, Araris trekked back to the camp.

**.**

**.**

Already dark outside, hood drawn up, he'd entered his tent. Shook off his thick cloak and threw it over a chair.

Araris had graced her with a rarity, a smile. A genuine one, she believed. _Anna, it's good we finally have time to talk. Really talk._

To heated wine and good-hearted laughter, they talked time away. Shoved the blatant issue of Bann Ackley's betrayal aside.

When she looked at him, he seemed radiant in a way. The halo of preternatural intelligence and understanding casting him in a light she remembered from her childhood with him. The feeling of belonging, being part of something greater, witnessing the world through the frame of his mind, the colour and taste of his words guiding her into uncharted territory, territory her mind might otherwise never touch.

Oh, the delight resurfaced, warmed her chest, made her dizzy.

Alfstanna might not always understand, but she could follow nonetheless.

_Anna_.

She'd missed that, hearing him speak her name like that.

Yet, when he started to talk about the sister he'd never known, his radiance subsided and a gloom took its place, a sinister vibe which drove a pang in her heart. To her great shame, she'd known about Elissa for some time, as did others, but none, bar Captain Bars actually possessed the courage to approach Araris and share with him the news.

'Will you go in search of her?' Alfstanna wanted him to say yes. So that the siblings, who'd lost so much, who shared so much pain without knowing each other, might find solace in their shared company. They deserved whatever happiness might await at the fated day of their meeting.

Predominantly, though, Alfstanna wanted him to say no. To keep him here, his leadership with the rebellion in order for them to stand a chance, in order for Ferelden to stand a chance at survival, at justice, and then recovery from the grave wounds inflicted by Loghain. In order to keep Araris at her side, however distant he might be to Alfstanna's presence.

But his answer came swift and decisive. 'No.'

The blunt answer reeled her in to a stop. 'Why not?'

'I cannot abandon the rebellion. And with Howe still out there, Elissa's life is in danger as much as mine. If she is still alive, that is.'

Alfstanna frowned. 'Why shouldn't she be?'

With his fingers, Araris traced the rim of his empty goblet. 'Even without his coffers packed full with Highever gold, Howe managed to send assassins after me in Antiva.'

Alfstanna had not heard this story. She'd not heard much of what Araris did over the last decade or so, come to think of it.

'Elissa is in Orlais, is she not? At the University, by invitation of the Empress herself.'

Araris nodded. 'That does not make her unreachable. But, you speak true, it grants her more safety than if she were at my side. Maybe Howe does not even know of her absence and simply presumes her another victim of his _coup d'état_. Running like the overprotective brother to her side might, in the end, be the very action which alerts him to her whereabouts. And _that_ I will not risk.'

Araris shook his head slowly. 'I will not let my actions be dictated by Howe or fear of what might happen. Not even to my own flesh and blood. It would be irresponsible.'

He fixed her with a vehement gaze. 'I _do not_ reap what I sow, Anna. I sow what I want to reap. And the seeds have already been planted. There is no stopping the will of nature. Not for Howe. Not for Cauthrien or Loghain. Not for Elissa.'

Something restrained snapped inside Alfstanna. 'You compare yourself to nature now, Araris?'

'Merely an analogy.'

She narrowed her eyes. 'Of course. Tell me then what you would reap in the days to come?'

Outwardly, he didn't even react. 'You know exactly what.'

Alfstanna drove deeper. 'Howe's head on a spike, while satisfying, isn't the only thing you must worry about. What about all of them out there. They've, each and every last one of them, wholeheartedly put their faith in you, Araris. Would you leave them behind, _just_ to get your revenge?'

Unlike Araris, his voice grew louder. '_Just_? Just! Just my revenge, Anna? He. _Butchered_. My Family.'

'And in turn you would lead your people to the slaughterhouse? Or leave them like meat to be collected. All to pay back death with death? Have you no care for them?'

The flat of his hand thumped on the table, rattled goblets, ink-filled flasks, maps, and figurines out of their slumber like an earthquake. 'Of course, I have! And if they follow, most of them will survive the winter. But I will not let them slow me down.'

'You'd feed them with words of hope and then take hope from them?'

'If they need me to hope, then they're doomed already. I am not a knight sent by the Maker, nor his bride. I am not a demon come to pervert the cause of this rebellion. I am simply a man, driven by the burning desire which fills my heart, Anna. I am not a shining example to be venerated. I am just a man.'

'Then you are blind to what you stir to life in your people. Do you not see it in their eyes when they look upon you?' _Do you not see it in my eyes?_

'Your hatred for Howe blinds you, Araris. And while deeds of passion might burn the brightest, they also devour the quickest. They leave you emptied out in the end.'

Then Araris did something so innocent, something Alfstanna had never seen him do. He averted his gaze.

Alfstanna leaned closer. 'Araris. I am so sorry about what happened to your family. Everyone is. But if you substitute grief with hatred . . . I dare not think of it.'

Araris looked back up, composed. 'There is no need for you to apologise, Anna. Not on your behalf nor that of others.'

He swiped the topic away with a careless gesture. 'But you need not fear for the people. I shall lead them to safety. To a place where nothing will be able to touch them. Neither winter, nor men-drawn steel.'

A flickering lash in his eyes, shoving Alfstanna straight back up in her chair, shoulders tense. 'After that, if it is to be that way, I shall even crack open the firmament and thrust my blade in the Maker's chest if that's what it takes to get Howe in a room with me.'

Alfstanna gulped. 'What's this place you speak of, Araris?'

He smiled. It chilled her to the core. 'We're going to retake Highever, Anna.'

One battle not even finished and already planning the next one.

Something dislodged. Alfstanna identified it as doubt. Always there, hidden behind murky excuses, now it began to fester like a badly treated wound.

**.**

**.**

_What did you think about the way I handled Captain Bars' interaction with the militia? Too much italics? Also: what say you about the rest of the chapter?_


	22. The Begetting Of Bloodshed

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes._

_I want to thank _Serithus, Theodur, _and _Guest _for taking the time to review the last chapter, as well as all others out there reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story!_

_We have reached the turning point many things hinge upon. The battle begins. And I've come to the conclusion that writing battle scence is hard. And takes a long time. Certainly took me long enough. But I wanted to have the entire chapter(s) written down, at least as a draft, before publishing anything. This point is now. You can expect one chapter per week for the next two or three weeks._

_ I'm glad to have made it this far, because this chapter and next two or three (depending on how much I add or delete from the drafts) were some of the chapters I looked forward to the most to write since starting this fanfiction. Without all of you, my dear faithful readers_—_reading, following, faving, and reviewing this story I probably wouldn't have made it. _

Thank you so much!

_Without further ado, enjoy the latest chapter of a book written in an age full of heroes._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter XXII **

**The Begetting Of Bloodshed**

**.**

**.**

Carrion crows circled above, squawking, foreshadowing the events about to transpire.

Strong winds buffeted Anethayín, as she peered through the partially crumbled crenellations of the flagstone watchtower with narrowed eyes. The wind howled through the exposed interior of the decrepit edifice. It arrived cold from the north, coming down from the mountain-riddled Coastlands, tugging and stretching the forest of banners of the Men of the Laurel—as they'd began to call themselves—slapping the air like numerous whips.

Anethayín could easily make out countless crests of minor nobles, lords and ladies, knights and worthies disappearing in the whitewash flutter of more prominent Houses.

Lines of infantrymen under the emerald portcullis of South Reach took up the host's flanks on both ends. Their outer corners screened by columns of Highever men behind rectangular shields—the surviving veterans of Ostagar, who'd been under the command of Araris' late brother, Fergus. They flew the mint-coloured teardrop of Highever with pine lances crossed in front of it. Behind the flanks, on each side, a thrown-together formation of archers of various houses slung longbows and nocked arrows. The centre, many rows deeper, undisciplined militiamen mingled behind a thin shield of indentured soldiers. The demonised bull of West Hills, horns curled, and nose pierced formed a canopy of canvas above their heads.

The white-winged laurel wreath of the Cousland family and the banner of the Mortal Swords stood at the forefront, where less than one hundred horsed men waited. The turning water wheel of Waking Sea, Anethayín could not discern in the distance.

An equally as impressive collection—mayhap even more so—of forged allegiances formed a fluttering roof over helmeted heads opposite the arrayed Men of the Laurel. The low charcoal brick wall, a sinewy wolf loping over it, representing The Southern Bannorn. The beige crescent of Dragon's Peak, tips upturned, with five stars glimmering underneath. The brown boar of Amaranthine took up a large portion of the midsection of the loyalist army. At the left flank, the daffodil yellow wyvern of Gwaren carried by row upon row of heavy cavalry, knights at the front and men-at-arms at the back. The two cinnamon-coloured mabari facing each other, one paw raised in greeting—the banner of the royal Theirin bloodline perverted to Loghain's cause.

Anethayín wiped at her brow with the outside of her hand, tried to blink the distant figures into sharper focus. She would stand witness today, no matter what. To make sure that historians killed none of these men with a mere stroke of the quill, smiting the facts into the distorted recounting of their own making.

_History is the vengeance of bitter old_ _men_, Emperor Kordillus Drakon I had supposedly said. Just before he'd had the Imperial Historian, Remkettri, flayed alive for portraying the history of his ascendancy to the throne in a way to curry the emperor's favour and not, as had been his duty, to relay it with utmost historical accuracy.

Anethayín would make manifest the unheard voices of those who bled and died today.

Half a dozen riders from both armed forces rode towards each other at a canter, intent on wasting time on a conflict of words before the bloodshed began in earnest.

**.**

**.**

The flat Iachus Plains sprawled around him, broken only by the occasional larch or formations of rocks.

Franderel decided to shove a clamp on the ceaseless bickering inside his head, the shuffling line of second-guessing like a sickness of his mind. Weeping and buzzing climbed to a shrill, nauseating whine.

Franderel guided his caparisoned grey around, northwards and back onto the paved Imperial Highway. Soon the Tevinter remnant would curve to the right and past West Hill fortress. Franderel spotted the highest watchtower of his from rock-hewn castle, integrated into the spine of a low mountain ridge stretching along the Coastlands towards Highever and then further until falling away at the outskirts of Amaranthine.

Elderly, men, women and children unable to pick up arms for the rebel cause were ushered along by what remained of his men-at-arms and the few Waking Sea knights Araris Cousland had put at his disposal. All in all, not even two-hundred armed men shepherding thousands upon thousands of refugees to the supposed protection promised by West Hill.

They'd walked or ridden through the entire night and now till midday and it showed. Men hung in their saddles, half-asleep. Children stumbled over their tiny feet, crying out only to be picked up by parents. Eyes dulled, they cared only about putting one foot in front of the other. But the fear shone through it all, through every slurred, drunk-like movement, through every cast look. The refugees had yielded the relative safety of the palisaded encampment in exchange for a prolonged march to walls of stone.

Arriving at the rear-guard, Franderel saw a trio of outriders, galloping towards him at full-tilt.

'My lord,' one of the outriders began his report, still reining his horse in. 'Our lordship Cousland has made contact with the enemy.'

Franderel nodded. Then a queasy feeling overcame him, rearranging the insides of his stomach. 'Something else?'

The outrider gulped. 'We've cavalry hot on our heels, my lord. Quarter-bell behind us.'

The weeping in his head swelled. 'How many?'

'Didn't get a good look, my lord.' The outrider glanced at his comrades for support.

One of them piped up, a veteran. Without a waver in his voice, he said, 'Full-strength regiment, at least, my lord.'

Outnumbered five to one. Franderel spat phlegm on the pavement of the Imperial Highway.

'Give command to rally here.'

The outriders rode off.

Franderel regarded the cloudless sky, offered a quick prayer to the Maker for his men. The refugees would've to reach West Hill fortress without them.

**.**

**.**

'What news?' asked Cauthrien, nudging her horse forward, retinue now complete with Commander Iskara at her side. Farah'an kept stride with long inhuman steps.

'Aye, King's Blade, a messenger from Commander Naujeri. At the time of the messenger's departure, Naujeri and his Amaranthines caught sight of the enemy. Engagement will happen shortly, if it hasn't already,' said Iskara, rubbing the skin underneath the leather strap of his helm.

After the execution of Commander Blist, Cauthrien and Iskara had discussed replacements and, through some brush with fortune, found Naujeri. A young cavalry officer who seemed to harbour as much disgust for Blist as Cauthrien and Iskara, if not even more.

'Good. I'll expect him to make quick work,' she said.

'Naujeri has orders to circle back 'round and attack the rebellion from the rear when finished.'

Cauthrien nodded in satisfaction. She jerked her head in the direction of the enemy. 'What make you of this, commander?'

'They have the numbers on us, King's Blade. But not the discipline.' He pointed. 'Veterans at the wings. Militia holding the centre with some heavies at the front, to take the brunt, no doubt. What cavalry they have, they've kept in reserve.' Iskara studied the surrounding cover available, a dense littering of larch, redwood, birch, and rock which spread in a curve, the epicentre of which was the royal encampment behind them. The forested flanks spread left and right of them.

'Somewhere.'

Iskara continued his assessment, 'Our own centre of heavies and medium infantry will break the militia. Might take some time, desperation's a strong incentive. But we'll break through and divide them. Then it's only picking one side off, while the other's kept at bay.'

'My men will carve a path through them,' offered Farah'an at their side, growling deep in her throat. 'They're eager for blood. Even if the sorceress who slaughtered our brethren won't be among the victims today.'

Iskara nodded in the way old men often did. 'A fortuitous turn of events, indeed. Had the apostate stood with the rebellion, the outcome would've been far from certain.'

The ease of his certainty irked Cauthrien. How could old men still be overcome by such unwavering conviction? Had this not been pounded out of the marrow of their bones over the many years they'd spent in this world? Beliefs ground to dust by the sobering confrontation with reality after harsh reality.

'These militiamen won't break easily, commander. We've taken weeks longer than anticipated. What with so many of our patrols gone missing,' said Cauthrien, tugging at the leather strap holding Summer Sword's harness.

'A few weeks of training, no matter how diligent, are nothing compared to a lifetime of soldiering, King's Blade,' said Farah'an, managing to layer her flanging voice with even more conviction than Iskara.

A horrifying thought occurred to Cauthrien. Certainty turned into conviction. Conviction turned into fanaticism. Fanaticism turned into myopia. Myopia turned into blind action, riding the back of certainty. _Do I stand here with two fanatics?_ If so, she feared.

'They'll break.' Iskara gave a placating smile, intent on putting Cauthrien's mind at rest. Despite his effort, Cauthrien found she could do naught but doubt.

She squinted at the lone, pale-haired rider approaching them.

Cauthrien spurred her horse into an accelerated pace, eager to get this meeting over with.

**.**

**.**

Alfstanna's horse whinnied beneath her. She tried to calm the beast, patting its flank.

Righting herself in the saddle, Alfstanna took a deep breath and tested her slung longbow with a few mock draws. Once satisfied, she rested the weapon across her lap, spared a glance at the Waking Sea knights around her, in hiding under the winter-faded canopy of birch and larch and the evergreen cover of redwoods.

_There's no stopping the will of nature._

The sentence repeated itself, over and over again. A scratching echo, reiterating its meaning with every passing loop. Doubt. Hope. Fear. Belief. But it swung heavy with promise every time, no matter its actual meaning.

Alfstanna couldn't allow herself to be influenced by her own musings, harbouring new-found doubts as they did now. Not today! So much hinged on her, so many counted on her. Not only the men who'd ride with her to battle, her fellow peers of nobility, the refugees, her countrymen, all of them depended on her to do her part. And do it right she must. As instructed by the man who'd claim to own a momentum equal to nature's will. The harbinger of her doubts.

The necessity of conflict hadn't pressed Alfstanna to draw steel and shed blood often in her life. Sure, there always were raiders, bandits, and sometimes the odd consortium of desperate pirates pillaging along the coastline of Waking Sea. But nothing like this. Not large-scale battle.

The waiting infuriated her, sheared her nerves down to the core, exposing the quailing frailty within. Alfstanna wasn't made for this. Leave the killing to men like Araris who seemed to thrive on it. Who planned their next act of death before one was even finished.

An elven messenger arrived at her side, bowing once. 'Arl Bryland sends his regards, my lady. He stands ready to engage the enemy cavalry.'

Alfstanna managed a terse nod. 'On his command, then. Convey my regards to Arl Bryland and wish him the Maker's fortune.'

'Of course, my lady. Best of luck to you, as well.' The elf scurried off, disappearing in the gnarled undergrowth, travelling along the curving forest to Leonas' westward position.

**.**

**.**

They'd taken to the likeness of stone and waited unmoving.

It didn't appreciate the need to cower like vermin amongst tiny wildlife as the beasts zipped over the Che'ell brothers' chitinous carapace.

But their master commanded them. And His word was beyond law. It was the lifeblood upon which their presence in this sphere of existence was paid for, nurtured, and sustained.

As the wheel of time passed numerous times and light and dark exchanged places, the Che'ell brothers had graced this world with their inimitable art. The seventh of the Che'ell brothers alone had slain a score of mounted humans as they ventured too far from their comrades and across the flatlands, exploring.

The long slits along its snout opened wide and drew in deep, the protective membrane inside vibrating with the motion. Wildlife froze around the Che'ell brothers, then went on to resume its business. The seventh of the Che'ell brothers tasted the stink of imminent battle in the air, the reek of unwashed human bodies and horses. The stench of bone-deep fear the humans liked to cover up with faked courage soured his nostrils.

Through the psychic link of their blood which bound them together and the received sensorium of Him, the seventh of the Che'ell brothers relayed the lay of the land and the position of meat to be eviscerated and displayed to its brethren.

A euphoric shudder drove through the Che'ell brothers, shared over the blood-link, and thus intensified into the giddiness preceding the ecstasy of coupling.

The time to hide would soon be over.

To be replaced by the time of the magnificent weaving of souls into the canvas of murder. The collection of ended lives to be carried on its shoulders, dragging the endless legions of slain along the trackless path with it.

**.**

**.**

The ground cracked, in erratic patterns as only nature brought forth, by low spines of jagged and lichen-overgrown rock. Jan peeked through the underbrush, over rocks, and in between larches shielding them from the enemy's left flank.

'Why, by the Maker's hoary balls, are we here, Corks?'

The barrel-chested man in question glanced at Jan with one eye. 'How d' you know the Maker's got 'oary balls? Maybe he shaves every morn.'

'What?'

'Seen 'em up close? Tickled 'em godly testicles while you're at it?'

Jan controlled himself to hiss his annoyance. 'What the fuck you talking about, you empty-headed oaf?'

Dim-witted, Corks smiled at him, tongue lolling. Then proceeded to glimpse over the boulder both men hid behind, tongue pinched between his teeth in concentration. 'Were they even?'

Jan grumbled. 'Were what even?'

'The Maker's balls, o' course. Or d' one hang lower than the other? You know, like an old man limpin', draggin' his leg.'

Jan cupped his face, groaning.

'Shut up, you idiots!' Angry hiss from one of the sapper sergeants with them, glaring at them with a stinky eye.

'Great, you gone an' did it again, Jan. Made the geezer mad. Now we'll 'ave to dig latrines again,' said Corks, lower lip protruding in a sulky pout.

**.**

**.**

Araris Cousland came to them alone, leaving his escort of grey-leathered Mortal Swords behind.

He didn't look like a man of noble birth. A battle-scarred veteran of many engagements—yes. Like one of those tribesmen living in the mountains or, at least, how Farah'an imagined them in appearance. Thin but not frail, muscles knotted lean like sinew, haircut rustic, and skin pallid. Only thing missing were blue tattoos curling along his limbs, further accentuating his gaunt features.

Farah'an settled down, palms of her hands resting on the pommels of her twin swords.

The King's Blade kicked her horse a few paces forward. Between her and Araris Cousland lay not more than a few armspans. The King's Blade raised a gauntleted hand in greeting. The gesture remained unreciprocated.

'I pray you'll have your men lay down arms and surrender,' said the King's Blade.

Araris Cousland arched a brow. 'And leave them to be cut to pieces by your men, Cauthrien? I think not.'

Commander One-Eye piped in, offering his sentiment, 'You'll address Ser Cauthrien as the King's Blade, rebel _filth_.'

Before the old commander could add any more insults, the King's Blade bid him to hold his tongue with a sharp motion.

As if Commander One-Eye hadn't spoken, the woman proclaimed, 'None shall be harmed if they lay down arms and surrender. There's no need for bloodshed. I give you my word.'

Lifting his chin, Araris Cousland's expression twisted into a sneer. His eyes retained a curious blankness. 'Oh, but there is, Cauthrien. There is. Don't you see the looks the men at my back throw at you. Even they know that _this_ must be.' He made a point of glancing at Commander One-Eye. 'After all, you serve a tyrant who rewards cold-blooded murder and treachery with lands and titles. And those who'd stand up for justice he offers nothing but the sword.'

Araris Cousland spared each of them a glacial look. 'What you see as needless bloodshed, I see as Ferelden's answer.'

The King's Blade kept her cool. 'I would have this day pass without thousands dead. I would have a truce. I would have you speak with the king-regent to come to terms.'

It looked like Araris Cousland might laugh outright, but the startling vehemence circulating in his bright eyes was answer enough. 'We can start discussing terms once you've delivered Howe's head on a silver platter to me.'

Commander One-Eye's voice rose. 'In a time where Darkspawn roam our land, you'd rather spill the blood of men to sate your own madness! How unsurprisingly selfish of you. '

Araris Cousland swatted the remark aside. 'I'm going to blame your missing eye for that, whoever you are, old man. Because it seems the crown—you, that is—have put nothing but the Bannorn to the torch. Meanwhile the Darkspawn corrupt everything in their path.'

'So _do not_ speak of selfishness to me, old man. It is all of you—Loghain's loyal lapdogs—who act based upon his selfishness so that he might illegitimately cling to the throne for a while longer. At least, until the Darkspawn come knocking on Denerim's gates. And let me assure you of something. When I've soaked the Plains with your blood and you've run back like whipped dogs to your master after today and the Darkspawn finally do come knocking, then you needn't hope for my timely arrival.'

It trickled down, sunk in. Farah'an saw it on their faces. Araris Cousland had struck the cord of an exposed nerve. Played a tune which stirred the spark of vague uncertainties.

She opted for intervention. 'Hubris is ever the precursor of defeat, human. I would have you know that words such as yours, I've heard countless times.' She paused. 'The broken bodies of the speakers is all which remains.'

Araris Cousland appraised her, his light eyes brushing over the porcelain half-mask strapped to her belt. 'And putting your faith blindly in a man who'd ruin Ferelden with his actions is better?' He smiled and it seemed to rip something from Farah'an. 'But who better to answer questions of faith than one who has been repudiated by her own faith—' like a punch in her gut '—an apostate to her people. You stand outside the circle and thus see what those inside are incapable of seeing. Yet you reel from the loss of being outside.'

Farah'an nearly staggered. 'Faith has no place on the battlefield.' The rest she made a point of ignoring. It had hit too close, too penetrating.

Araris Cousland studied her a bit longer. 'On that we can agree.' But his chastising tone told her, _how very wrong you are. Can't you see them? _

Farah'an held his cold gaze, felt weightlessness tingle her limbs. 'I look forward to cross blades with you, stranger who's name invokes fear in the hearts of many.'

Araris Cousland smiled in earnest, showing a perfect row of white teeth in a wry half-smile. 'As do I, Isala'k.'

Farah'an reared back, eyes wide. _How?_

Having taken his measure of them, Araris Cousland reined his horse around and rode off.

'Why did you say that?' snapped Cauthrien, keeping her voice low.

Gathering her thoughts, Farah'an craned her head. 'Because it is true. No matter how painful it is to admit. No matter how much he rattled you. Both of you fear this man. Such a truth can only be faced head on. Or its weight'll crush you underneath, King's Blade.'

The qunari mercenary captain stared after the retreating back of Araris Cousland. 'We've heard the name. We've seen what face it wears. Now we must stand against it.'

_But face it with care we must. This man knows more than he should._

**.**

**.**

They'd left the Imperial Highway, making for West Hill fortress with haste. Driving the refugees like herders their cattle. Wains laden with food, clothes, and other belongings were left behind, baskets were dropped or cast away. More than two dozen were trampled to death in the ensuing panic.

Wind bended the trees in the distance. Screams and shouts drifted up from behind. The refugees running for their lives to the by a neck ditch surrounded portcullis of West Hill, the bridge already lowering on massive chains of iron.

Two rows deep, about a hundred long, his remaining knights and men-at-arms and those of Waking Sea put at his disposal surrounded Franderel. Horses shook their snouts, black nostrils puffing out air, the beasts stamped with their feet picking up on the fact that battle was close at hand.

Franderel scanned the line of battle-hardened veterans. Some had lived through the siege of West Hill. Others had endured the long march with the Men of the Laurel. Select few had survived the dread of Ostagar.

In the distance the Amaranthine cavalry regiment neared, outriders ranged the space between them, shouting, taunting. Urging his horse forward, Franderel turned to address his men.

'Men and women of Ferelden!' He pointed at the approaching enemy. His steed buckled beneath him. 'We cannot fight this and live!'

He let the words sway and get picked up by the wind.

He drew his longsword in a theatrical gesture, high over his head. 'Are you with me?' he shouted.

Swords hissed out of scabbards in a clamour of steel.

'Let's carve our mark into these Amaranthine fuckers and finish them off, once and for all!'

A bestial roar rose up behind him, drove him towards the hated enemy like a father's belt whipping his back.

**.**

**.**

The head of his massive war-hammer placed on the ground, Gallagher Wulff occupied the centre of the Men of the Laurel, surrounded by what few West Hills knights sworn to him still lived and the indentured heavies behind large round shields at the forefront. The larger part of the midsection of the armed forces under Araris' command was made up of the thrown-together rabble of hastily trained militiamen. In Gallagher's opinion not a reliable core to form the backbone.

Grumble he might, but he deferred to Araris' impeccable judgement on matters military. The boy had managed to prove himself so far. Though, now, it really counted. A toss of dice broaching the hairline between life and death.

And this battle, _this_ decisive battle Araris picked out and shared not his plan of how to engage their enemy. How he planned to defeat their enemy, how to possess the battlefield, and live for one day more thereafter. Araris opted for silence in the sessions where they'd held council. Araris pressed them to trust. Shared only individual pieces of his plan with those who needed to enact their movements across the Iachus Plains.

Gallagher had tolerated this and voiced his support when the others made their misgivings plain only because Araris had saved the people of West Hills from the Darkspawn.

Gallagher Wulff closed his eyes, exhaled a deep breath.

Araris Cousland drew back the reins of his Orlesian-stock midnight mare. The beast pranced from side to side. Araris leaned down, disfigured mane of gold splaying over his shoulder in a long, bound tail.

He spoke low. 'You must hold them, my dear friend. You know most of them weren't trained for this. This is not the life they chose. But they'll make up for it in spirit.'

His features turned grave. 'Lead them. Lead their spirit. Hold.'

The lie came easy, but wrung his innards nonetheless. 'Don't you worry, laddie. The bastards won't get through. And if I'll have to kick some peasants' arse to the frontline with my own hammer. Then, so be it.'

He tried a nod, heaving every ounce of trust and a large part of faked battle-courage into the gesture. 'We'll hold.'

Araris sat upright in his saddle, reins cradled in his lap, he took in the Men of the Laurel sprawling at Gallagher's back and sides.

Gallagher couldn't bring himself to remain silent. Voice pitched with accustomed command authority for many to be heard, he put Araris on the spot. Wanting—Needing!—to know. 'Where'll you be, your lordship?'

Araris Cousland offered him a beatific smile. It made him look impossibly younger, brighter. 'Know that I'll be at your side if the need arises.'

West Hills' knights in plate armour and irregularly outfitted militiamen shuffled around at his words, whilst the men of Highever stayed silent, watching their lord. Something in Araris' words stirred them into involuntary movement. To acknowledge his words, in some feeble way.

The young man's unfamiliar smile grew infectious.

_Good enough for me._

And it actually was.

**.**

**.**

Astride her horse, behind the arranged forces of the crown, Cauthrien overlooked the field of battle from a flat hillock. A swarm of messengers surrounded her and Commander Iskara. Isala'k had already left them on their way back and joined her mercenary company at the frontline, ready to drive with vengeance into the flesh of the rebellion.

On the opposite side, framed by a decrepit flagstone watchtower and the plateau it resided upon, the entire rebellion watched the lone rider, cantering along its length. Flying the banner of the Mortal Swords of Highever, less than a hundred, grey-leathered mounted men fell in behind him.

Araris Cousland voice resounded impossibly clear in the fresh air as if shouted from a thousand throats. 'Cousland! Cousland! My father's House!'

The rebel host came alive in answer, bubbling with liquid rage.

'Ferelden! Ferelden! All our House!'

The roar, aflame with exuberant passion, drowned out everything else. Startled birds took to the sky, even the carrions seemed to stagger in their cycling above.

The rebel host began its steady forward march.

Cauthrien nodded at Commander Iskara. 'Sound the advance.'

The sound of horns pealed through the shouts of the thousand thousand throats of the rebellion, subsided into the stamp of leather-soled feet pounding the ground of the Iachus Plains.

Cauthrien squinted, rose in her saddle to get a better look, disbelieving the view laid out in front of her.

Araris Cousland rode past the right flank of the rebel host and made for the tall larches and the thick undergrowth which circled the entire way back to Cauthrien's camp, framing the battlefield in an arch.

_Where, in the Maker's holy name, is he going to?_

Then she saw.

The northern treeline seethed with movement.

**.**

**.**


	23. The Iron Bell

_Author's note: _

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes._

_I want to thank _William_, _capitained_, _Badger2430_ and _Theodur_ for taking the time to review the last chapter, as well as all others out there reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story!_

_I also want to address an issue, which has been brought up by one of last chapter's gracious reviewers: William. My usage of single quotes over double quotes. I've been at odds with myself about this for quite some time. The sole reason behind me using single quotes to begin with is that my favourite author uses them as well. We all want to be near to the thing we worship, you could say. __But, as already mentioned, this has turned into something of an internal argument. And I have to agree with the point made by William (I believe there were also others who mentioned this previously—sorry for not mentioning you by name here)._

_So, from now on, I'll use double quotes. Older chapters will be updated gradually, as well. Maybe even with a few minor changes to adapt them to my current level and grasp of prose. Because, my God, some of my earlier writing is abysmal. But that's progress._

_Nothing game-changing or turning the plot, or parts of the plot, upside down. Simply some small alterations to allow for a smoother reading experience. So, not to worry, none of you will have to re-read all the chapters. But you're certainly welcome to._

_Somewhere (probably on my tumblr and in the author's note preceding newly released chapters) I'll mark the progress of these updates to older chapters. _

_Thank you all for your support! _

_Without further ado, enjoy the twenty third chapter of a book written in an age full of heroes._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes Chapter **

**XXIII **

**The Iron Bell**

**.**

**.**

The clamour of iron hooves striking the earth drowned his sense of hearing. Men and women cried their imitated defiance of fear, baring their weapons like exposed teeth.

From canter to full tilt gallop, charging the last one hundred and fifty paces between them and the overwhelming numbers of Amaranthine cavalry, who encompassed Franderel's field of view, spread out like a yawning maw, ready to swallow them whole. Breath heavy with exertion, his grey panted beneath him, black nostrils flaring.

Arrows whistled between the nearing lines of cavalry. Men were unsaddled, riddled with shafts. Horses screamed and reared in pain, throwing off their riders. The unlucky ones were trampled to bloody ruin by their comrades right behind them. Individual faces could be made out, hate written into their features. Then proximity, a flash of terror in round eyes.

Impact.

Jarring and brutal.

Lances broke, shields splintered. Men skewered, horses impaled. Shrieks everywhere. Madness. The cacophony of iron music. The tearing of flesh, the letting of blood, souring the air and earth. Swords flashed in the sunlight, their glint momentarily blinding.

Franderel guided his horse around, hacked with his long-sword. Sheared through leather and muscle. The Amaranthine cavalryman arched his back as if in orgasmic throes, his shoulder split, spurting blood onto Franderel's thighs, then toppled off his mound, wailing.

Tingling sense of alarm. Franderel stabbed down to the left. Struck a horseless Amaranthine square in the jaw, back out the neck. The jaw came loose in thick clumps of blood and gore when Franderel yanked out his weapon.

Amaranthine cavalry rode circles around them. Some loosened arrows into their midst, uncaring whom their projectiles found. Slain men littered the ground. Horses, half-dead, kicked their last, unsaddled indiscriminately, broke bones with powerful hoof strikes.

Sudden flare in his side. An arrow jutted out, shaft lodged between his ribs, force blunted by felt covers and leather. Franderel wheezed a heavy breath, knowing it was a dying breath, even if the arrow hadn't pierced deep enough.

Spurring his grey, Franderel thundered toward a knot of plate-covered knights. At the last moment, Franderel launched himself out of the saddle and tackled the Amaranthine knight who veered around to meet him. The arrow in his side snapped. The ground rushed up. Collision knocked the breath out of his blood-filled lungs. The Amaranthine knight's head slammed into a stone. His helm dented in, squashed the backside of his head with a splash.

Franderel hawked up blood. Swung his sword in a wide arc, without aim. A horse screamed. He advanced on the figure that staggered up like a drunk. Sword raised high, Franderel opened the woman from sternum to—

Smooth neck of a horse in his periphery. Swatted him aside. Bones broke. Organs bruised. Something came loose, spittle and blood flew, teeth cracked.

Franderel blinked.

The blue sky above was still cloudless.

The stink of piss and shit pungent in his nostrils.

A triumphant cheer went up.

Then he slipped away into the dark defiles.

**.**

**.**

Cauthrien watched South Reach cavalry spill out of the forest, forming up behind the pale-haired figure of Araris Cousland.

"He's too impatient," said Iskara at her side. "Showed his hand too early."

Cauthrien wasn't convinced. From the gathered reports, it had been clear to her for weeks, that the rebellion would outnumber her men. But between knowing and seeing gaped a chasm so wide, Cauthrien only arrived at this insight now.

"They're ill-outfitted, their mounts half-famished. Have our lancers meet them, King's Blade."

Cauthrien found herself nodding. "Make it so."

Messengers hurried away, horns brayed.

Just then, the rebels began to sing something unknown to Cauthrien. None heartier and louder than the midsection of militiamen.

Her heart fluttered.

**.**

**.**

The armies closed.

Arrows darkened the air between them. Descended and felled men in droves on both sides. Screams travelled, made up every sound on the Iachus Plains. Hollow and remote to Anethayín's pointed ears. Broken only by the whine of yet another volley of arrows.

To Anethayín, there appeared to be a spring in the step of the men crowding the Plains, as if overjoyed to finally spill each other's blood and drown the soil.

But her current focus resided with row upon row of South Reach cavalry, who'd just appeared at the tip of the curved forest, to the north. Just a few hundred armspans from her outlook atop the flagstone watchtower. There seemed to be no end to them. From in between larches and redwood they trickled out and formed up behind Araris and his Mortal Swords.

Their slow canter took them towards the disciplined formations of Gwaren lancers. Against the unified daffodil yellow and plate-armoured regalia of the Gwaren lancers, the rebel cavalry looked like hastily patched-up rabble. Anethayín identified the hammering of her heart as pounding worry. _How can they prevail?_ Worry for one man among thousands. _Please! Elgar'nan, Mythal, Falon'Din, Andruil! Fen'Harel! All of you! Please, let him survive!_

The rebel host took up a hymn. It took a few moments for them to achieve concert. Sorting through the clutter of her confusion, Anethayín discerned what the men of the rebellion sang. A short hymn she had played many a time in camp. The sudden understanding baffled her. A numbing tingle poked her chest, crawled in goose-pimples up her neck.

This!

She had wrought this!

Anethayín watched as the leftmost regimen of South Reach and Highever bowmen adjusted their aim and rained arrows upon the heavy lancer cavalry advancing on Araris. The Gwaren cavalry stuttered, dozens of horses died, but the formation was kept up through rigid force of will, it seemed. Many projectiles ricocheted off iron helmets and chain mail, the distance too long and the bows too weak to penetrate plate.

The space between the hoisted wyvern and the white-winged laurel wreath shrunk. Canter turned into gallop as the men urged their horses into a wild charge. Movement among the Mortal Swords, leading the charge with Araris as their spear-tip, made Anethayín squint her eyes.

Bolts, loosened from contractible crossbows filled the remaining stretch between the two forces. Punched through mail and armour. A single deadly volley at point-blank range. The Gwaren charge became pure disarray, faltered at the last moment. Then the rebel cavalry crashed into them with fury in their throats.

Never had Anethayín heard a combination of sounds so simple and complex at the same time. Wails of men and horses which bespoke the simplicity of death. The awful din of iron which bespoke the struggle to remain alive.

Like claws hooked into the furred flank of a raging beast the fierce mêlée turned into a maelstrom of motion, obscured by rising curtains of stirred up dirt.

Then detonations shook the ground, vibrated through the flagstone watchtower. Anethayín braced on the crenellations. Bits of hundreds of men and women sailed high and far in the air. The qunari—tearing bloody junks out of the Men of the Laurel with what remained of their dread munitions.

Contact between the armies.

The bell had rung the hour of iron.

Chaos and death reigned everywhere.

Anethayín felt the sting of salt in her eyes.

**.**

**.**

The downpour of torn-off limbs, ripped open and charred bits of flesh continued unabated. Clanked against his shoulder and battlecap like hail, made him flinch. Without trying to provide release for his winded lungs, Gallagher bellowed at stunned men along the hopelessly chewed-up line. Entire squads, entire sections . . . Gone! Their shock kept them paralysed in dismay and naked horror.

_Too late._

The horned beasts ploughed into their midst, strange broad-swords hacking and grilled shields battering. The line of indentured soldiers, Western Hills knights, and militiamen disintegrated into confusion. The qunari butchered them like stupefied cattle. Blood rose like mist.

Gallagher blocked an incoming slash with the heft of his war-hammer, lashed out and caved in the chest of a qunari. The war-hammer's head came loose with a wet sucking noise, covered in soggy remains of meat, slippery with blood.

The pretence of discipline and straight lines was tossed aside and stamped out like glowing embers at the approach of a patrol in enemy territory. Everything became mayhem and the distinct roar of battle.

His massive war-hammer zipped from side to side, snuffed out life after life, crushed it underneath its weight and the momentum that drove it. Not long after, his arms aching, the qunari gave way to regular men—Amaranthine infantry. They gaped at him, wide-eyed and with a translucent trepidation that sent a pang of satisfaction through the old arl. They hesitated to close the gap and wade into mêlée.

Gallagher decided not to humour their lapse of courage. Lunged into their midst with a swing of his hammer. Shields broke and men were thrown back with girlish shrieks.

He shouted and felt the rush of men at his back and flanks, drove into the Amaranthine infantry like a terrible winter blizzard.

Faint surprise, as he saw wild-eyed militiamen hurl themselves into the Amaranthine line, singing their strange hymn.

**.**

**.**

Such ferocity!

Such blind faith!

Farah'an understood now what Araris Cousland had tried to communicate her. Faith had a place on the battlefield. She'd mistaken his faith, his certainty of victory as hubris, a conceit the man clad himself in. But now she saw. He'd forged and tempered his people's faith in him into a weapon he could grasp and wield.

No matter how many she cut down. No matter the ease with which she did it. More and more militiamen, peasants accustomed to hold a pitchfork or a hammer, threw themselves at her in a lunatic frenzy. Their faith appeared without limit. She slew three of the fools in the time it took her heart to beat, but five more were eager to fill the space, howling with reckless abandon.

Farah'an stepped to the side, her twin blades opening arteries and severing muscle and tendon. The militiamen's crude attempts couldn't so much as scratch her ash-coloured skin. Aimless attacks, more akin to stumbling forward, she deflected with her soaring blades, and punished immediately with a counter. Weak attempts were blunted or dodged outright. The spilt blood of scores hardened on Farah'an's skin in jugular-spurt patterns.

With calm and surgical precision she crept along the frontline. Repelled the vain efforts of the enemy wherever she fought.

Found herself face to face with the hammer-wielding man who stood nearly as tall as her. The long-bearded boar who'd crushed many of her comrades to pulp, guiding his heavy weapon with a facility belying his age.

He bellowed at her. "Come, Loghain's beast-whore! Let me crush your skull!"

Farah'an smiled behind her porcelain half-mask.

The throng of people around the man pressed closer, smelling opportunity. But they were kept in check by qunari and men at her flanks, although only barely. The lines teetered back and forth, trading blows, claiming lives, ever on the brink of collapse.

Farah'an stepped in close. Blades flashing hungry in the brilliance of the sun.

The boar's advance jerked to a sudden stop.

Farah'an pummelled him with swift slashes and feints. With the avian speed of her swords, the boar's mighty hammer had no hope of keeping up.

Gashes split open his arms and legs.

The boar faltered and slowed, the countless small incisions exacting their toll.

**.**

**.**

"This is stupid." Corks lobbed the grapefruit-sized clay container into the air, caught it again with his large palm.

"You're stupid," muttered Jan, half-heartedly, occupied with eyeing the small hillock and the figures bustling around on top.

"I am not!"

Jan hissed. "Shut up, you brainless donkey. They'll hear the farting noises that come out of your mouth."

He threw a sidelong glance at Corks, his heart slipping into his trousers. "And, for the love of the Maker, stop playing around with dwarvish bombs like they're something else."

Corks looked at him with uncomprehending doe-eyes. Sometimes Jan questioned the man's intelligence, if something like intelligence even swirled around inside his thick skull.

"Unless you want roasted pork," Jan tried to explain.

"I like pork."

Of course. Jan shook his head. "Well, you can gnaw it off your bones, then."

Corks stared at him. Mouth hanging open, salivating. Then clamped shut. Repetition was ever the way out for those at an end of words. "This is stupid."

"You already said. But we've to wait for the signal."

"Waiting is stupid."

Jan sighed. "My lordship Araris told us to wait for the signal. So we'll wait."

Corks started playing with the dwarven bomb again. It'd been pure luck that a dwarven surface merchant was stopped by a cavalry troop scouting the lands surrounding the rebellion's encampment a few days previous. The Great Names in their council sessions decided to seize the opportunity.

Corks froze, mulled something over, nibbling his lower lip. Arrived at an insightful conclusion. "I don't like my lord Araris. Tristan is much nicer. You can talk to him. My lord Araris always hides in his tent."

"Andraste lend me strength to weather this sodding simpleton."

The sapper sergeant crept up from behind, spared them a glare, and ordered the odd pair to be ready at a moment's notice.

_Not much longer now,_ he said.

**.**

**.**

Messengers came, bearing dread news of losses and gains. Minimal and great at the same time.

And were dispatched post-haste with new orders. To account for the flow of battle and the reshuffling of formations and situational adaptations devised by Iskara.

Cauthrien stood back, wholly without use. Tracking the progress with narrowed eyes. Not that she could actually discern anything of note with the curtains of dirt screening the two locked forces, like large things alive, raking each other with a thousand thousand iron claws.

To the north, beyond the right flank held by Dragon's Peak men struggling with streams of South Reach infantry and unforgiving Highever veterans, Gwaren lancers and South Reach cavalry continued to bleed each other dry. They seemed farther away than moments before. Entire wings disengaged, reformed some distance off and charged back into the disorganised fray. The white-winged laurel wreath fluttered, the thinned-out company of the Mortal Swords ranged around and took one such troop by surprise, drove into their flank and cut them down in the confusion.

At her back, Iskara conferred with the messengers crowding the flat hillock. Listening, absorbing, reacting. With one ear she followed his instructions, trying to penetrate his process of thought. Try as she might, the intricacies of warfare eluded her for the most part. Cauthrien didn't know how, but Iskara managed to keep up with the throng of reports flooding his way.

The awareness emerged from some dark place she couldn't name. The way the South Reach cavalry drew the Gwaren lancers farther and farther away from battle. The subtle exposure. The creation of an opportunity. The absence of one of the Great Houses of the rebellion.

Stirring, the treeline shifted and bended with movement. The banner of Waking Sea took to the field. Hoisted above knights and armoured chargers, wearing skirts of mail, stamping their hooves. Aiming for the right flank of oblivious Dragon's Peak soldiers, who concentrated their efforts on the infantrymen of South Reach and Highever locking them in combat. Lining up for a decisive cavalry charge that would cleave right to their heart.

Cauthrien turned, shouting at Iskara. The old commander whipped about, scanned the distant deployment of Waking Sea knights. Bellowed at the messengers.

Something sailed through the air. A grapefruit—where?

It landed among the messengers. Splintered open, splashing black fluid.

Shower of sparks, dull in the afternoon sun.

Then flames.

**.**

**.**

Their horses flew across the Iachus Plains like creatures of legend. No shouts were raised. No war-cries hurled at the enemy. No arrow loosened. The knights of Waking Sea charged in silence. The pound of their horses' hooves mostly obscured by the clutter of iron on iron and the voices of thousands crying out at once.

_War is seizing momentary opportunities,_ Araris had told her. _The secret lies not in spotting them. But in making them._

It beggared Alfstanna's mind. This shaping Araris had wrought. _How! How could he have foreseen the steps and movements necessary for this moment to come to pass?_ Alfstanna had asked him as much this morning, when he'd informed her of what her part in this battle would be. The knife striking the killing blow. The knife that would cut tendon so that the body crumpled, according to Araris.

_I do not seek to defeat them, Anna. I do not seek to humiliate them._ A glimpse of the preternatural halo surrounding him whenever he spoke in cryptic responses. Responses she railed against in silence. _I seek to possess them._

And it seemed he did. Absolute possession of the pieces on the board. A step back here and a step forward there. A feinted retreat to draw in and expose. A lightning-quick strike to distract.

Araris played with thousands of lives, prodding them this way and that. To control the happenings. To control the circumstances. To control the outcome.

Shaped in the confines of his tent. Before even laying an eye on the enemy.

_How!?_

How couldn't she doubt? How couldn't she believe? How couldn't she be torn by these diametrically opposed forces.

Faces turned. Fingers pointed. Men reared back in horror and the knowledge of impending death crashing into them. The soldiers of Dragon's Peak retreated until they bumped against and stumbled over each other. Their scrambling panic proved to be their undoing.

The wedge of caparisoned chargers spurred by the knights of Waking Sea drove into their undisciplined flank.

Men were hoisted into the air, speared on lances, and thrown back into the cowering ranks. Swords and maces swung down. Skulls were split and bludgeoned to flying bits of meat and splintered bone. The horses did their fair share of killing, trampling those the knights didn't get.

Alfstanna guided her charger to the left, veered around, the knights following behind. She let arrow after arrow fly into the faces of the enemy. The hacking, stabbing, and cutting of Waking Sea knights seemed more for appearance's sake than for any real discernible motive. The horses ran the Dragon's Peak men down anyway, beat them to bloody pulp.

Then they broke through, went out back the spine of the square. Having carved a path of ruin and mangled bodies through the Dragon's Peak formation, halving them. Even now, the South Reach infantry contingent of Leonas hastened their onslaught, pressing the advantage, covered by hard-bitten Highever veterans. Before their cleaving swords and their rigid discipline, the right flank of the royal army melted away. Consumed by the sword-toothed apparition mauling their flesh. The lines shrunk, were swept inward, and the flank enveloped. Men were separated from their comrades and slaughtered absentmindedly.

Alfstanna had her knights regroup. Her gaze swept around, trying to grasp sense in the surrounding madness. Here, Araris instructions ended. And her judgement was called upon. He'd trusted her to make the right choice. Her!

She found the royal mabari and the banner of the wyvern, on the flat hillock overlooking the battlefield, in flames. Black thrashing shadows framed in golden fire, a handful locked in combat. Another one of Araris' strokes, no doubt. Alfstanna spotted the tall figure of Ser Cauthrien, surrounded by what of her command cadre remained alive, fighting for their lives.

More distant—the obscure whirling in seemingly random circles and arcs, superseded by clash after clash of Gwaren lancers and South Reach cavalry. The heavy lancers had regained their ground, found again their fortitude of spirit and now hacked Leonas mounted men to pieces in fierce reprisal for the horrendous losses they'd suffered. Their training and equipment superior, heedless of the numbers Araris had thrown at them. Heedless of the fact that Araris himself had added his own sword.

Her decision made, she gave command to relieve Leonas and Araris.

The knights of Waking Sea set out at a canter that soon turned to gallop.

**.**

**.**

No time to blink!

No time to stop and catch his breath!

No room for the tiniest misstep.

Only the thick plates of his armour had saved him so far. Without it, he would've lost his head twice already. Just to her first few probes of his defence. And, he knew, the female qunari savage had found them wanting.

Gallagher felt himself sorely pressed within an inch of his life. He knew to be outmatched by margins he couldn't comprehend. This qunari animal danced a dance he'd not learned, something so far beyond him, it swiped the ground from beneath his feet.

Tiny wounds—too many of them!—leaking, sapping him of strength. His hammer growing heavy. His muscles aching and sodden with spent energy.

Searing pain across brow and hip.

Gallagher didn't even see the twin blades flash.

Blood streamed down his face, filled his vision, blinding him. His right leg gave out, collapsed, unable to support his weight. His hammer slipped from his shaking hands.

The militiamen flinched back, horrified. Incapacitated on the ground, Gallagher shouted encouragement at them and, like a wave, they lapped around him, closing the distance. By sheer mass and pressure, the qunari was pushed back, now fighting for her skin.

Gauntleted hands dragged Gallagher back. His knights, ushering him away from the thick of combat. He clawed weakly at one arm. The knight leaned down, through a haze of red, Gallagher saw the shape of a face in part obscured by a plate helmet.

"My lord?" The voice droned distorted from beneath iron.

"Fetch a messenger." Gallagher tried to contain the flutter in his voice. "Araris. We need Araris."

_Else the centre will collapse. And all is lost._

**.**

**.**

Tears streamed hot across her cheeks.

Her vision washed into a blur.

Anethayín clawed at her auburn hair. Pondered the notion of leaving the watchtower and stride down among the men and women gladly butchering each other. Just to scream at them to stop. It shone vivid in her mind. Like a goddess she would stride across the Plains, her voice lightning and thunder, rooting them to the ground in wonder and fear of her wrath. She'd command them to cease this senseless folly.

A child's fantasy. This knowledge led to only more tears. Anethayín slid down into the corner of the decrepit flagstone crenellations, sobbing, breath coming in short, cut-off intervals.

She cupped her face. "Why?"

More forceful, as if in accusation of the heavens. "Why!"

Screams rang ceaseless across the Iachus Plains in answer.

**.**

**.**

They burst out of the woods, breaking and uprooting thick redwoods and pine-shed larches. Slim birches exploded in a shower of wooden shrapnel. Horses reared in surprise and men shouted in confusion.

The Che'ell brothers vaulted the tapered stakes driven into the ground to provide a defensible perimeter against world-born men. The seven of them laughed in mirth.

The camp was arranged with military proficiency, with clear pathways, intersections, and yards reserved for training drills. The closer to the heart it got, the more it reeked of authority and command.

With the backside of its claw, the seventh of the Che'ell brothers swatted aside a mounted human. The beast's belly he rode was shorn open and innards ripped out. They slapped wetly against the canvas of a tent, slid down in a streak of red.

The eldest of the Che'ell brothers, its carapace shining translucent and with cataracts of greyish green, ripped a horse apart with its enormous claws. The geyser of blood showering its leathery skin hissed into plumes of vapour. Its tapered tail lashed out, shattered the legs of a human creeping up on it from behind.

The fifth brother—the one closest to the whorls of insanity—flayed rags of skin off animal and man. Stuck them to the hooks it'd drilled into its carapace, cladding itself in a macabre suit of stretched flesh.

_Art! O, glorious art!_

The seventh's massive axe sliced away the veil of meat and exposed the stink beneath. Its brothers descended upon the few left behind to guard the camp with thrills of pleasure. Their obsidian axes bisecting men and horses indiscriminately. The humans, shitting and pissing themselves, abandoned their post, crying out in mind-breaking horror, and struck to the back of the camp with the intention of flight from the alien presence in their midst.

The Che'ell brothers took to butchering the horses and cattle bound to poles and stakes, as they'd been commanded. Torches were thrown into tents, tripods of glowing coal upturned, dusting the encampment in the glitter and crackle of starting fires. On occasion the Che'ell brothers tasted and feasted on human and animal flesh to sate their smouldering hunger. Of each sacrifice in His name, they crafted profound art.

To be witness by those who'd return hollow-eyed after battle. And take from them the very last sliver of their will and bind it to death.

There'd be no need to draw weapons against these emptied men, for they'd aim their weapons at their own throats, their hearts black as pitch with hopelessness.

**.**

**.**

Biting sting.

Cold against his cheek.

Then unreliable wakefulness behind the screen of agony. It thrummed up and down his left side. Crashed into him like the hammer on an anvil.

Screams filled the air. So distant. So near.

Somebody dragged him. His entire arm was white-hot pain. His torso felt wrong. His left leg dragged behind at an odd angle, bumping over the rough earth.

Franderel realised the screams were his. Felt a burning warmth down his legs.

_How can this be? I am dead. At the Maker's side is where I belong! Is this it? Is eternal torment all that awaits? _More screaming.

They dropped him to the ground. Broken bones creaked and chafed. Franderel bit off the edge of his tongue. Liquid copper washed out his mouth. He spat. Inhaled fine-grained dirt.

A voice. Remote and intense with a sneer. "The great Bann Franderel! Who so frustrated our efforts. Who denied Blist and cost him his head. No more than a broken, old cripple now. His fortress he can hold, but not his bowels and bladder it seems."

Laughter.

Franderel seethed, wanted to claw, and gouge. For even now, slowly dying, he felt shame at those words. He swallowed, his throat desert-dry. Craning his head back and against the pain, Franderel peered up, one-eyed, at the man standing above him. Found a plain young face staring back, ordinary to the point of blandness, save for the unwavering eyes drowned in brutal glee, and a stubbled jaw bunching uneven.

Franderel opened his mouth in retort, but managed only a wrecking cough. Blood and catarrh stuck to his chin.

"I'll have your men gutted and strangled with their own intestines. Then I'll have them bound to their horses, so they may be delivered to your fortress." The young officer smiled a torturer's smile, sweet like a lover, with dead eyes. "My name is Naujeri. Remember it. And don't worry, you can stay and watch."

**.**

**.**


	24. Only Motion

_Author's note:_

Disclaimer:_ Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes._

_I want to thank _William_, _No Tears Only Dreams,_ and _Theodur_ for taking the time to review the last chapter, as well as all others out there reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story!_

_This chapter contains the scene that conceived this story at the very start (or, at least, a version thereof), before the rest of it branched out in my mind like hair-thin veins spreading from ink drops on parchment. Accordingly, this chapter's title is derived from that scene. _

_Where giants (finally) cross swords. _

_Without further ado, enjoy the twenty fourth chapter of a book written in an age full of heroes._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter XXIV **

**Only Motion**

**.**

**.**

Iskara shrieked, writhing on the ground. Trying to put out the flames that melted the flesh off his bones. Beyond him, members of the messengers corps ran around and wailed, trying to achieve much the same. But the flames brokered no mercy. One after one, the charred remains of Cauthrien's command cadre slumped slack and dead, flesh frizzling. The air was sweet with the scent of roasted pork.

Less than thirty Men of the Laurel rushed up the hillock to finish what they'd started with the lethality of dwarven ingenuity. More than enough to overcome the survivors of her Gwaren bodyguards without breaking a sweat.

An arrow took the man beside Cauthrien in the throat. He went down with a gurgle. Tugging sharply at the harness holding Summer Sword, the leather straps on her back jerked up and forward, propelling Summer Sword out of its sheath and into Cauthrien's waiting hand.

Like always it felt as if subtle vibrations hummed through the lyrium-invested blade. The bluish hue of the alloy flashed foreign in the sunlight. The sword high over her head, Cauthrien started down the flat hillock with a battlefield-roar welling up. The Gwareners trailing behind her.

Cauthrien knew that the battle had slipped from her grasp, if it had ever been in her grasp to start with. Araris Cousland had outwitted her and Iskara so thoroughly, they didn't even realise it had happened.

Summer Sword flicked in her hand and ripped off the face of a man. Two others crumpled to the ground with deep wounds gleaming black. The pommel of her sword split the cheek of a woman, who staggered back from the impact. Cauthrien punched the tip of her blade through the woman's clavicle, kicked her off Summer Sword's hugging embrace.

The Gwareners at her sides hacked and slashed but one after the other they died, overwhelmed on all sides by Men of the Laurel.

In the distance pillars of smoke rose from the royal encampment. And Cauthrien knew that the forces of the crown had been defeated.

She fought on with a snarl, sending men and women sprawling to the earth.

**.**

**.**

After the bone-breaking clash of cavalry, the battle had branched out into dozens of smaller skirmishes around Araris.

The Gwaren lancers had fought them to a standstill. Gathered their wits and put an end to the savage battering they'd taken in the first moments of combat. When the Mortal Swords and the South Reach cavalry had driven into them and slaughtered them in uncountable hundreds.

Araris' longsword bended and screeched through the air. Sliced open the hip of a Gwaren lancer. Araris rode down another man. Sorcerous muttering blared at him. Through the thunder of combat, he picked up the creak of a bow, the release of an arrow. He stirred Kelpie into a forward lurch and ducked down. The arrow whizzed over his head, close enough that the feathered shaft brushed Araris' hair.

The events had unfolded according to his moulding of the circumstances. But the Gwaren lancers defied him. Beyond the disillusion known to men as reason, clutched tight by their hearts, they didn't break from the horrible toll Araris and his men had exacted from them. They rallied! Charged and charged again, bound them in fierce melee of beast and man alike, which cost them far too many lives for Araris to feel comfortable with.

Araris traded blows with a Gwaren knight. Araris gestured. His longsword described an improbable motion. The Gwaren knight stared dumbfounded at the stump of his arm, spurting blood from arteries like the stream of a little boy's piss. Araris chipped his temple, went through the brow, with the tip of his blade and the knight toppled from his saddle.

Beyond the curtains of dust, the din of thousands of men swinging their weapons reached him like the distant rush of a broad river. The moan of screams towered like spectral apparitions hunched over the battlefield. A beautiful hymn resonated in the air, plucking faint recognition from his brain. Though, much like the Gwaren lancers' resistance, its origin defied him at the moment.

The Mortal Swords circled around him, keeping Gwaren lancers from overwhelming pockets of South Reach cavalry wherever they could. Captain Bars, without his horse, one shoulder stooped, and slick with blood running down his side ran through the broad-shouldered woman he'd fenced with. Went down to a knee, to make sure to finish the job, he smashed her face in with one, two, three strikes of the iron rim of his round shield. Looking up, he scanned around, shouted at the Mortal Swords. _Stop drifting apart, you fucks! Stay close!_

Araris spotted Arl Bryland beset on all side. The ranks of South Reach cavalrymen around him thinning before a troop of fully armoured Gwaren knights. Araris kicked Kelpie into a canter, riding towards the arl.

On his way, Araris picked up a lance stuck in the ground with one hand. Hurled it towards the knot of knights surrounding Leonas and his struggling men. It took a knight through the back of his spine and punched out through his chest. Standing up in his stir-ups, Araris chopped down. Part of a head and shoulder sailed through the air, dragging forking veins of blood in its arcing descent. The Mortal Swords in Araris' wake slammed into the Gwaren knights and cut them to pieces with belligerent proficiency.

Araris rode up to the arl. "Are you hale, Leonas?"

A heavy panting in his voice, the half-Orlesian answered, "Thanks to you, your Lordship."

Araris wiped it away. This was no time for flattery and idle decorum-confined conversation. "We must put the Gwareners to the rout. They're hanging on to their last threads." A lie, but a necessary one.

Leonas cast around as if trying to find what Araris spoke of. Araris penetrated the mask of his face, glimpsed what gathered behind the confines of the flesh. Leonas slowly, but surely, pierced the elaborate veil of illusion. Awakened to the world.

"Rally your men, Leonas. Take the battle to them."

With a tight nod, Arl Bryland had the horns sounded to reform.

Waving with one arm and shouting like a madman, a messenger galloped towards Araris. _Not South Reach._ Araris narrowed his eyes. Possibilities cycled and clicked. _West Hills. One of Wulff's men._ The tip of an arrow jutted out of his shoulder, another stuck in his forearm. The messenger reined in at Araris' side. Nearly fell out of his saddle. Araris steadied the man.

"Speak!" commanded Araris, leaving the man no time to catch his breath.

Voice tight with pain, breath labouring. "Arl Wulff requests your assistance, your lordship. The centre is near collapse."

Then it zeroed in, lit up once, like a tissue thrown into fire. The cycling stopped. "Who leads them?" he asked, although he already knew.

"A qunari."

With a nod, Araris sent the messenger away, bidding him to seek immediate treatment for his grievous wounds. Most likely, he wouldn't even make it that far.

_Leave them in their hour of desperate need . . . they'll see me leave. They'll crumble._ Araris made up his mind. It had to be.

If Arl Bryland and his South Reach cavalry perished, Araris would've to contend with the Gwaren lancers taking the field and harassing his infantry wherever they pleased. Far from ideal. But the loss of the centre would prove far more disastrous in the grand scheme of things.

Araris scanned the sky. The possibility folded open like a flower. At the right moment. He seized the opportunity.

Pitching his voice to traverse the battlefield and amplified by a sliver of sorcerous current, he spoke and his voice rumbled like the crash of waves against breakers through the noise of combat. "Look! Men! You all! Look to the sky! The royal camp! The royal camp burns!"

Men of Gwaren and South Reach turned their heads. In one half despair took root. The other half steeled their hearts, reassured.

Araris ordered the Mortal Swords to rally.

They'd wade into the thick of it.

**.**

**.**

It stole her breath. Rend the ground beneath her moot.

The force of solely acknowledging what unfolded before her eyes quivered through her, became tactile, and knocked the breath from her lungs like a battering ram.

Alfstanna disbelieved.

The white-winged laurel abandoned the field! Araris' bound hair flashed golden in the sunlight as he left the men of South Reach to fend for themselves. As he left Leonas behind. With the iron and daffodil yellow figures of Gwaren lancers that reared like monsters in Alfstanna's eye. The Gwareners fought with a ferocity singed by gouts of desperation, the last threads of fading lifeblood still in their bodies, and they clung to it with a fierce grip and something feral in their eyes. Why, how, evaded Alfstanna's comprehension.

"Araris!" She shouted. She accused. She cursed. All with one breath. All with one word. And with all her heart.

Impossibly, he seemed to have heard her. His head turned and their gazes locked for a heartbeat. Alfstanna cast all she could grasp, all that boiled through her, into that gaze. She wanted him to know. _There's no turning back from this._ Nothing changed in Araris' impassive features.

Araris Cousland averted his gaze and, Mortal Swords in tow, rode off.

Alfstanna found an unfettered howl bubbling up, astonished at the violence of emotion it scraped her throat raw with. The frothing well of passion she had to disentangle from her body, her self, but would not lessen its determined hold over her. She kicked her horse, a keening intensifying in her head. Let an arrow fly into the vague throng of Gwaren lancers. Someone cried out. Gratification swept eerily theroid through her. Another arrow, and another. Alfstanna rained ruin. Men lent their voice to the act of dying that followed. Some couldn't, speech impaired by feathered shafts stuck in throats or eye-sockets.

The Waking Sea knights cut into loose formations of unprepared Gwaren lancers. Horses shied and reared, others bulled through.

All the world erupted.

Lances snapped. Shields cracked.

Like the silent knife at night, they pierced the kidney of the body that was the Gwaren cavalry. Twisted the knife. The Waking Sea knights stabbed and hooked, Alfstanna screamed and shouted with them. Until they had the air of being bloody-lusting creatures, devoid of anything humane, and encrusted in the carved-out and spilt remains of their enemies. Shrieks claimed the skies.

Those Gwareners who wheeled around, frantically seeking escape, Waking Sea knights, astride more rested horses, hunted and quickly rode down.

They put the Gwaren lancers to the rout. Some lucky few managed to flee into the woods with their life intact. The ground was matted in rings of dead horses and men.

Alfstanna called out to Leonas, trying to locate the man. She rode through ranks of wounded South Reach cavalry, uncaring if they thought her compassionate, infatuated with their arl, or simply crazy. She didn't cease her calls.

A knight, cutting the throat of the Gwarener at his feet, pointed her in the general direction where he'd last seen Arl Bryland.

Alfstanna arrived at a circle of knights, kneeling as if in prayer to the Maker. Alfstanna gulped down her fear and slid out of the saddle.

At her approach, the circle of knights parted and revealed Leonas. On the ground. A cloak covered his prone body like a blanket. Stained dark with blood.

The tears came of their own volition. Alfstanna slumped down at his side, searching for his hand, grabbing it. _So cold._ It drove currents of ice through the veins pulsing in her head. Made her head swim and dotted her vision black with crawling maggots.

The salt of shed tears on her lips.

"Leonas . . . " she croaked. Her voice broke, turned into a sob that squeezed out the anguish of her heart, a wrenching grip fixing her in dull terror. Till it grew too gluttonous and fat, leaving only a hollowed-out shell behind, emptied of something so deeply essential it eluded Alfstanna.

A misty layer clouded Leonas' dark eyes. He looked at her, but seemed to lack focus. He blinked multiple times.

"_He_'ll pay for this," Alfstanna more felt than heard herself growl the vow.

Leonas licked his cracked lips. Voice weak, he breathed, "He?"

"Araris!" Alfstanna snapped. "He abandoned you!"

It took Leonas so much effort that it pained Alfstanna to look. She just wanted him to shut up. Conserve his strength. In a mutter like sails stretching in the wind, he said, "Araris . . . saved me. Saved my . . . men."

Alfstanna clenched her fingers into a white-knuckled fist, eviscerated the urge to slap Leonas back into life and from the Maker's gate. She hated herself for it. Projecting her hatred for Araris on Leonas, on her friend, on her _dying_ friend.

Alfstanna leaned down until their faces were mere finger-widths apart and the coppery scent of his breath rose up to meet her. To trade words with him not meant for everyone's ear to catch.

"How can you say that, Leonas? He left you for dead. He fled."

A sad smile that clawed the breath from her chest. Then a shake of his head, followed by a grimace. "Didn't . . . flee. Gave my m-men . . . hope, w-when I . . . couldn't."

Leonas grabbed her arm and she barely felt it. "Look after my d-daughter . . . will you?"

A garrotte tied its scything line around Alfstanna's throat. She managed a tight nod.

Leonas' fingers left a smear of red as they slipped down.

His eyes lowered to some obscure point, he stared through all material things as if they were merely barriers. His chest stilled and his eyes turned fish-eye dead. His beautiful dark brown eyes, robbed of everything that filled them with beauty.

Alfstanna grabbed at his face, speaking in hushed whispers to him, beseeching, begging. She pounded his chest, trying to beat life back into them. Then tears washed everything away in a haze of blurred shapes and remote meaning. Like the ocean a cliff-side shore, the tears ebbed back and forth over the stone of her mind and, for what seemed like years but were only a few moments, gnawed at her until only a smooth, hollow façade remained.

One of her knights roused her. Limbs flailing in animal hysteria, Alfstanna's eyes snapped open with a start. She'd drowsed off after her men had dragged her away from Leonas' corpse. They tended to their wounded and regrouped, making ready to join the raging battle again.

To the east, behind the epicentre of the arched forest on the Iachus Plains, black towers of smoke twisted into the sky like whirlwinds. The royal camp—burning!—when did that happen?

The immaculate surface of Araris' plan, of his guarded silence during council, manifested in Alfstanna's mind. The dispassionate calculus rearing hoary and bestial behind it. Alfstanna understood. And she hated herself for it. Hated that he'd made the right—the hard choice.

When one didn't know what to expect, by denying them assurances of victory, by denying them explanation of the numerous nuanced paces of his strategy, Araris gifted them with something far more valuable during the course of battle. The unexpected. The victory, albeit small, on the horizon, like an omen prophesying the future. And thus, the sight of the enemy's camp alight and coughing smoke inspired in the Men of the Laurel an even greater fortitude, whilst it whipped the enemy's heart bloody with despair.

With the unexpected sight came the dawning knowledge that they hadn't been led astray and to the slaughter by Araris Cousland.

_Look and see where I lead. Witness what I portend!_ The spine-chilling whisper of his voice snaked ghostly into her ears like a sigh.

But Alfstanna only saw Leonas in her arms. Dead.

Had Araris known this would come to pass, as well? _How could he? Had he any reason to?_ Alfstanna wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. _I expect too much of him. I see too much in him. His words, his intellect always blinds me._

Alfstanna got up, limbs shaking with exhaustion. Addressed a Waking Sea knight. "Assemble the men."

"My lady?"

She pointed. "We ride for the royal banner. We cut off the head of these _loyalists_."

Ser Cauthrien, King's Blade to an illegitimate and false king, would be the target of Alfstanna's pent up anger. Alfstanna would fill the smooth basin that made up her hollow inside with that anger.

Ever searching for relief until smooth turned back to jagged.

**.**

**.**

A swath of arrows sailed over Farah'an, plummeted into the shield-raising lines behind her.

Towering over the masses of humans surrounding her, Farah'an glimpsed distant and near patches of the horned forms of her brothers and sisters, hulking above the heads of others like her. Iron flashed, reflecting smudges of light. Blood flew in clots like dirt. Men bawled, screamed, shouted, shrieked, roared, staggered, and died. Nothing else could be seen. Nothing else could be heard.

Only that mannish hymn, sweet as a peach. But even that seemed dimmer than afore.

Farah'an had retreated back into the ranks after the warm up round with the war-hammer wielding boar of a man. She dipped into the murky pools of her strength—preserving her strength for _one_ man. Farah'an intervened only when in her hawkish gaze weakness or the impending breaking of links in the chain blossomed. Sometimes her presence alone sufficed.

The sea of the Men of the Laurel parted. A wedge drove through them and towards the centre of combat, right where Farah'an waited. A many-throated cheer went up, blotting out the clamour of battle.

Farah'an caught sight of the golden-maned tiger around which men parted and carried forward with shouts.

He reached the frontline. Araris Cousland's longsword blinked out of its sheath. Men stepped into his way. It seemed he merely shrugged and gestured and bodies collapsed. Farah'an tracked the graceful movement Araris Cousland's blade described. The Mortal Swords in their blackened chain hauberks arrived behind Araris Cousland, battered into Amaranthines and qunari mercenaries at the front and drove them back with the methodical finesse of career soldiers.

Farah'an watched Araris Cousland. Soon a small circle opened about him. The air reeked of fear. None dared engage the man willingly.

Her eyes appreciated his adolescent-narrow waist, twisting with each move of his weapon. The fine-boned fingers clutching the hilt, not wielding the weapon, but becoming the weapon, an extension of himself. Araris Cousland did not hack or cut, he touched, he brushed, he caressed. With a meticulous precision that one couldn't be trained to achieve. One could only be born with it. Bred for it over generations, like Farah'an.

_Finally!_

Farah'an unshackled her twin blades from the prison of their identical sheaths and strode towards Araris Cousland, smiling.

**.**

**.**

Ingrates denied his path.

Araris appraised them in a steady beat of his heart. Found them wanting. Not yet tempered by the truth of battle. Their mortality not a thing they could grasp. He stripped them of their vanity, exposed them like a nude whore, and showed them the futility of their efforts. Snuffed out the flickering candle of their life with a hiss of his longsword.

The Isala'k studied him. Like nails breaching his skin.

The edge of his blade expressed death. His mind dulled down to pure reflex. Tracking the flex of muscle underneath leather and interlocked rings of mail, Araris assessed possibilities and probabilities, killed futures, killed men, killed entire worlds. He walked the shortest path. Struck the quickest blow. He possessed the endless permutations of battle, made them his own. The men who stepped into his warring circle he controlled, for they entered conditioned ground.

A corner of his mind detached and wandered a trackless steppe. Yavana, sitting cross-legged opposite him in the vastness of the sanctuary called Silent Grove, obese pillars growing like trees from the stone tiles.

_They are as a religious sect. Their explicit purpose shrouded in secrecy and rumour,_ she'd explained.

Fires ranging between sunlight and moonlight flickered through the temple in shadows like otherworldly appearances.

_Even from their own people they keep their purpose. And their religion is not turned unto a god or simply the faith of the Qun, the faith of logic. They kneel not before anything mundane. Their religion is war. Their religion is survival. And their way is the way of the sword. The sword that is wielded by the Arishok. The sword that is a shield. His hidden army of barely hundreds that could conquer the known world, would their purpose not forbid it._

The still waters of the circular well, stairs leading down into unfathomable darkness beneath the surface, crumpled in the stir of a breeze. The calm breath of a sleeping Great Dragon, filling out the temple with its gargantuan frame.

_They are the Isala'keii. Bred for the sword. To live by the sword. Their entire lives are premeditated by it. They are the sword. And the sword accepts no defeat._

A pause. Yavana seemed to listen to voices only she heard. The whisper of truth in her ear. It was moments such as these Araris thought her claimed by madness of centuries spent alive.

_In defeat the Isala'keii see the greatest shame of all. So the Kgatii, the thousand of rank, mark defeat upon their masks. With streaks the colour of blood they number their betters. It is said, that there is an Isala'k with a white mask, the first among them, who has no betters . . . though if this is true, I cannot say with certainty._

The men beyond his circle folded open, like a curtain drawn aside, and spat out the Isala'k, nine red streaks on her alabaster porcelain half-mask.

A moment of stillness. A hush enveloped qunari and men, the masses blurred away into silence.

Then an explosion of fleet motion.

The dance began.

**.**

**.**

Thirteen.

Twenty six left.

Some of them struggled. But there were too many.

Some of them begged. But their pleas fell on deaf ears.

Some of them simply sobbed. But they were met only with laughter and insults.

Few of them stayed silent. Accepting their death.

One by one, Amaranthine cavalrymen, under the watchful eye of Naujeri, hauled the men and women under Franderel's command away from their shackled comrades. Kicked them to their knees.

Now it was a West Hill woman's turn, Mirian. Franderel had known her most of his life. Valued her presence. She'd often stood guard outside his bedchamber when he slept or answered missives regarding matters of state.

Mirian bawled, "Bease! No! Beeease!"

With already practised motions two Amaranthines went to work. One held her in an iron grip, the other drove a hunting knife into her belly and began to cut. Intestines were pulled out by hands already black with congealed blood. Tenderly wrapped around her slender throat, and bound to the saddle of a horse. A clap on the animal's backside and it galloped away, dragging behind it blue-faced Mirian, arms bound behind her back, legs kicking frantically, fishing for purchase.

Franderel's pain had dulled. He'd tried to scratch out his own eyes. Nearly succeeded, much to the chagrin of dead-eyed Naujeri, overseeing the grim proceedings with nary a move. Now Amaranthines towered over Franderel, their eyes not straying from his broken form.

They entertained themselves with easy conversation. "Shouldn't we turn back to relieve the King's Blade?" the one on Franderel's left said.

The one on his right spat. "Fuck the King's Blade. We answer to Arl Howe. Not some lowlife farmer cunt."

Leftie chuckled.

Fourteen.

Twenty five left.

Franderel tried again to take his vision. Was beat down for the effort.

Naujeri's shouts over the ringing in his ears, commanding them to stop.

_He must witness the magnitude of his failure!_

**.**

**.**

With a stupid grin on his flat face, the barrel-chested man swiped his daggers at Cauthrien. Summer Sword hummed, flickered left and right and reflected both strikes back. His centre of balance ludicrously lopsided, Cauthrien stepped past the extent of his guard and followed up with the killing blow.

Impossibly, the man weaselled his way out of Summer Sword's reach, a child's innocent laugh on his full lips. The daggers snaked in close again.

Cauthrien re-evaluated her opponent. Lured him into the lull of recognised patterns, meanwhile seeking holes in his defence. Their blades winged and clipped in an elegant yet limited repertoire of moves, dulled into habit and reflexive response.

She watched the sway and shift of his farcical centre of balance. Broke through the pattern. Struck with a blow of Summer Sword's silverite pommel. His nose broke in a gush of blood and the man rolled down the slope of the hillock in a tumble of limbs.

Another took his place, a man, thin as a rail, shouting, "Corks!"

Cauthrien dodged his slash, nicking his kneecap with Summer Sword's tip. He went down in a heap after his comrade, screaming, clutching his bleeding leg.

The stampede of horses at her back. Knowing full well the danger of turning, Cauthrien ventured only a quick glance over her armoured shoulders.

A haggard-looking influx of Gwaren lancers, some guiding saddled but riderless horses. Their approach was framed by hundreds of Waking Sea knights not far behind. Cauthrien spotted Alfstanna Eremon, her face indiscernible in the distance. The Gwaren lancers reined in around her, cut down the Men of the Laurel or simply rode over them, throwing them off the flat hillside.

"King's Blade!" a Gwaren officer shouted at her. "You must abandon the field!"

It struck Cauthrien like a blow in the gut. What she'd known all along, what she'd feared hardened and became concrete reality. Stowing Summer Sword in its harness, Cauthrien swung up in the saddle and spurred her horse into a gallop.

She fled with less than one hundred Gwaren lancers.

At today's dawn, they'd numbered three thousand.

**.**

**.**

Their blades licked out and kissed.

They whispered prophesy and sweet promises, rang with iron certainty, its echo final and interminable.

Around them men and women stared in wonder. Some even ceased to fight altogether. Never had they witnessed a sight that could compare. Words couldn't describe. Memory wasn't acute enough to remember in detail.

A flurry of movements flashed through the air. Too fast to follow with the naked eye. Glinting blades narrated perfect geometries of the body, arches flowed like liquid, describing flickering parabolas and intersecting curves that branched out and touched with blinding perfection in a shower of sparks, which travelled like a dusting of stars between the two figures locked in combat.

Araris Cousland and the qunari known by many as Isala'k and, by those few who knew her well, as Farah'an didn't abate their whirlwind of iron. They stayed close, so close it seemed intimate. Like year-long lovers performing a well-known carnal act in front of a lusting audience. The performance of two whores in a brothel. Hard-bitten men wept openly at the beauty of their dance.

Their bodies whipped about in a blur of physical flawlessness that seemed godlike. They didn't part, didn't break contact. They repositioned with immaculate footwork no matter the ground beneath their feat. Mere gestures and manoeuvres transferred into a deadly hissing that metamorphosed into a constant keening noise, which sounded as if death itself walked among them.

They warred. In a plot of feints and counters, slashes and ripostes, dodges and pirouettes, all so complex it beggared the mind. All so quick. So far removed from the men surrounding them, it seemed they stood on another pedestal entirely, unyoked by mortality, the light of the Maker shining through their veins.

They warred a war of their own.

No blood had been spilt. Those around knew, in their heart of hearts, that there'd be no needless blood-letting in the presence of these two. Such base things they struck from reality. If blood was spilt it'd be the end, as sudden as the start.

Abolishing the boundaries of possibility, Araris Cousland and Farah'an carried on and on, a core of surreal calm that contradicted rationality, wrapped in a scintillating sphere of blade movements. Two elemental forces, neither willing to yield. Neither willing to grant the other even the most infinitesimal step.

There was no forward or backward.

Only motion.

Then the braying of a horn.

**.**

**.**

Having concluded their masterful portrait in honour of murder in His name, the nine Che'ell brothers sped from the encampment on powerful hind-legs. Ducking low they entered the faint gloom projected by the forest of small trees.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers sniffed. Recoiled. Caught an abhorrent scent.

_Absence Incarnate_.

**.**

**.**

The bark of hundreds of cattle mabari tied a rope around Anethayín's sheltered mind, lit up in curiosity, and dragged it back up out of the gloomy deeps. It emerged covered in algae and soured by the salt of her tears.

She wiped at her face with the rim of her shirt, brushed away snot from her nose.

Blinking the remnants of tears from her almond-shaped eyes, Anethayín scanned the palisaded encampment of the Men of the Laurel. Everywhere mabari yapped, struggling against their confines. They bared their teeth, growling. Then it turned to pitiful whines as if their masters had raised hands against them.

In the south, the only direction not witnessing any outskirts of battle, dark clouds gathered. A roiling wall of rain and thunder, obscuring everything underneath in curtains of blackish shadow and thick downpour. The storm had arrived out of nowhere, as if conjured by a cadre of Circle magi.

Inhuman horns pealed, flayed the very fabric of the air. Anethayín whimpered. The sky answered with lightening, splitting the horizon with blinding lances of energy, branching out like limber trees.

Shrouded by the cover of clouds, endless masses of Darkspawn loped like canines over the abandoned corn fields covering large rectangular patches of the flatlands. Even as they sped over the ground of the Bannorn, crops wilted to muddy and infertile grey sop.

The nasal whine of Highever horns rose to greet them.

Then the nightmare began.

**.**

**.**


End file.
